


Carols and Comforts

by a_forgotten_note



Category: Sanders Sides, Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders
Genre: Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Prinxiety - Freeform, christmas carol au, it's subtle... but it's there., logicality - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_forgotten_note/pseuds/a_forgotten_note
Summary: A man finds himself alone on Christmas Eve... or is he?A note in his door warns him of the past, present, and future, but Logan Mend isn't one to believe in fairy tales.Follow him as he relearns love, family, and heartbreak...All in the span of one night.





	Carols and Comforts

                Christmas eve… a ridiculous night. Is it special, in any way? Different than any other day in the dismal dead of winter? No, not at all. It is an excuse, in some ways. A scapegoat for all the shenanigans that people wanted to pull, an adequate explanation for their pointless giddiness… and an justification to dally the day away.

                Logan didn’t care for those things… all the hullaballoo and the Christmas carols were nothing more than a nuisance as he sat at his work desk, calmly tallying loans and revenues. For Logan Mend, it was simply another day of work. People needed money. People _always_ needed money. Logan couldn’t very well let his work stop to play in the snow.

                No, no… Logan had outgrown all of that. He was a responsible adult, unlike the vast population. Christmas even wasn’t _special._ It was a waste of a good work day.

                So, just like he had for the past twenty years, Logan sat at his desk on a cold, dark Christmas eve. The room was chilly, but Logan didn’t mind it. It gave his work meaning. After a good, long work day… he could go home and relax by the fire, planning for the next days’ work in the comfort of his home. His employee, Mr. Picani, seemed to have different plans.

                “Sir…” Emile started slowly. Shakily. Almost like he couldn’t find conviction in his words. Logan lifted his eyes from his books, giving Emile Picani a long, tired stare. Emile wavered, his hands fidgeting as he started again. “Sir, I… I was wondering if I may…”

                Logan placed his quill back into the inkwell. “Out with it, Mr. Picani.”

                Clearing his throat uneasily, Emile nodded. “Right. Well. It’s just… my son, sir.”

                Logan blinked, arching an eyebrow in skeptical surprise. Emile had a son? He’d heard of Emile’s wife passing away… but nothing about a son. This was news. News wasn’t good. Emile wouldn’t be bringing up this son without reason; he _wanted_ something. Logan frowned, folding his hands together as he glared at Emile over the rims of his thin-wire glasses.

                “You want money,” Logan said astutely. Emile blinked, baffled, and tried to wave the statement away.

                “N-no, it’s not… well, maybe it _is_ that, but… I just…” Emile licked his lips, rubbing his hands together as he shifted from foot to foot. “My son… he’s very sick, sir. And though I… _appreciate…_ your employment, I just don’t have enough money to pay for his medicine _and_ put food on the table.”

                “So… you want money,” Logan repeated. Emile frowned and stared at his shoes.

                “I was… was wondering if I may have an advance on my paycheck, Sir. Just so I can buy him his medicine. Please,” Emile lifted his eyes, catching Logan’s with a pleading stare. “Please, sir. He’s all I have… I can’t lose him.”

                Logan blinked slowly. A sob-story here, a tall-tale there… who was to say whether Emile was telling the truth? For all Logan knew, he just wanted a fatter check for the Christmas holiday. Pursing his lips, Logan took up his quill and resumed his work.

                Emile faltered, still waiting for an answer. “Ah… Mr. Mend?”

                “You will get your pay when service is rendered, Mr. PIcani,” Logan said stiffly. “If I were to simply give you an advance, what collateral would I have to show for it?”

                Taken aback, Emile hesitated to answer. “You’d… you’d have my everlasting gratitude, sir.”

                Logan clicked his tongue and gave Emile a sharp look. “’Gratitude’ is not something I can weigh in my books now, is it, Mr. Picani?”

                Visibly beaten, Emile seemed to sag where he stood, melting down into a sad, moping rendition of himself. “No, sir.”

                “Very good. Back to work, then.”

                When Emile continued to stand, frowning and listless, Logan waved him away to his desk by the window. Emile, still hanging his head, shuffled to his desk and sat. Logan worked on his balances, marking down debts and accounts to be collected… before glancing up at Emile.

                The man was rubbing his hands together, breathing heavily into his hands and clouding the air with warm breath. Logan frowned. “I’m not paying you to rub your hands together, Mr. Picani.”

                Emile jumped in his seat, shoving his hands into his armpits to keep them warm as he sputtered, “Sorry, it’s… it’s just so cold, sir!” Logan was unmoved by that statement, and he was merely irritated when Emile spoke again. “If we started a fire… I’m sure the office would be nice and warm in no time.”

                Shaking his head, Logan gave the dim, cold fireplace a disinterested glance. “That would be a waste of material, Mr. Picani,” he said, dipping his quill before resuming his work. “The day is almost over… lighting a fire now would simply be a waste of resources, and in turn, a waste of money.”

                “B-but –” Emile said, gazing at the fireplace wistfully.

                Setting aside his quill, Logan read over his work as he said, “If you’d like, Mr. Picani, you can light one log. I’ll happily deduct it from your pay.”

                “No. No, sir… it’s fine,” Emile turned back to his own book, taking up his quill with a shivering hand. Logan watched him for a moment, just making sure Emile was _actually_ working, before closing his workbook and pulling out a different account.

                Without warning, the front door of the office swung open in a wide arc. In strolled Logan’s nephew, haughty and swaggering as he walked up to Logan’s desk with a grin on his face.

                “Uncle Logan! Hard at work, I see!” He said with that smug smile, his golden eyes glimmering as he leaned a hand on Logan’s desk.

                Logan frowned, pushing up his glasses on his nose as he gave Remy’s attire a long look. A long black dress coat, his father’s grey satin vest and top hat… and cufflinks that were obviously his mother’s earrings. It seemed Remy was dressed to impressed today. Logan sat his quill aside.

                “Remy,” he said crisply. “To what do I owe this unexpected displeasure?”

                Shrugging wildly, Remy took a loose step in the direction of Emile’s desk. “I’m here on a family errand, Uncle… he _llo_ , Mr. Picani.”

                Emile gave Remy a shy smile and a nod. “Hello, Mr. Traum.”

                “How quaint,” Logan grumbled. Remy simply grinned as he flicked the end of Emile’s quill. Twitching where he sat at his desk, Logan adjusted his glasses. “Do _not_ interfere with my employees’ work, Remy. If your father has business with me, he could have come to me himself.”

                Steering himself away from Emile’s desk, Remy rolled his eyes and gave Logan a tired smile. “Always such a ray of sunshine, Uncle. Remind me to bring Mother’s sun parasol next time I come to see you.”

                Narrowing his eyes, Logan massaged his temple tiredly. “You try my patience, Remy.”

                Licking his lips, Remy reached into the breast pocket of his coat and procured and envelope. He held it between his fingers delicately, dangling it over Logan’s desk with a coy smile. “Here. An invitation, Uncle. For Christmas dinner, at the family home, tomorrow night.”

                Logan didn’t move. He didn’t reach out for the envelope. He simply gave Remy a long, hard look. An invitation this late in the season… it was an insult, if anything. A last-ditch attempt of the family to include Logan.

                Remy’s family didn’t care for him… Logan’s own sister, Remy’s mother, had made that perfectly clear, many years ago. Logan didn’t care for Christmas celebrations. Or sentiment, for that matter. If anything, the invitation was sent along to save face. _Not_ inviting Logan was a social faux pas, even if they knew he would decline.

                When Remy heaved an irritated sigh, Logan clicked his tongue and snatched the invitation hanging from his fingers. “Is that all, Remy?”

                After a long, melodramatic display of thinking… Remy shrugged again. “I suppose so.” He pivoted on his heel to give Emile a considering glance. “You look cold, Emile.”

                Startled, Emile visually struggled to answer. Logan, however, made quick work of ripping the envelope – and its corresponding invitation – in half with an angry huff.

                Remy sauntered over to Emile’s desk, gesturing to the gloves on his hands. “You can’t even take your gloves off, you’re so cold.”

                “Remy,” Logan warned, giving him a look over his glasses. “We have work to be done.”

                “Work? Uncle, _please_ ,” Remy scoffed with a flick of his wrist. Those earring-cufflinks glinted in the sallow light of the candle. Logan frowned. Remy didn’t mind it. “It’s _Christmas_ _eve_ … no one should be working at this hour.”

                Rolling his eyes, Logan picked up his quill, making a point to not look at Remy when he said, “I am an accountant, Remy. A lender. A broker. I have many a responsibility in this town.”

                “You have many a bored nephew in your office,” Remy grumbled. Logan ignored it.

                “My work cannot stop for one day just because it’s a so-called holiday.”

                Remy snorted. “ _So-called_ holiday…” Logan ignored that, too.

                “Only the irresponsible and the deranged treat Christmas eve like some sort of revered day,” Logan said as he summed up a column.

                “That, or… they’re _Christian_ , Uncle. Religion is _also_ an option.” Remy gave him a tired laugh before smiling at Emile. Emile quickly ducked his head and continued working. Remy laughed a bit at that as he turned back to Logan. “No need to be so cynical.”

               Logan pursed his lips. “Cynicism suits me. Now, if you’re finished, we have work to do.”

                “My mother would agree,” Remy laughed as he shuffled his foot on the dusty floor. “Honestly, Uncle Logan, you really need to take a break. Come home! Have Christmas dinner with us. I’m sure if we pour enough gin into you, you’ll almost be… pleasant.”

                Emile let out a giddy laugh, but when Logan glared at him, he pressed his lips together and buried his nose in his workbook.

                “You want to pickle my liver. How inviting.” Logan dipped his quill into the ink. “I’m afraid I must decline.”

                Remy ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, pointedly watching the ceiling as said, “Christmas brunch, then.”

                Logan sniffed and smoothed a crease on the page. “I’ll be working, Remy. Please leave.”

                There was a pause. One long enough to make Logan actually lift his eyes. Rather than seeing Remy fiddling with Emile’s work… he found his nephew _watching_ him. There was something strange in his eyes. No stranger than the gold of his irises, of course… but something that struck a strange cord in Logan. It almost looked like pity. Or frustration. Possibly a mixture of both.

                “Working on Christmas day,” Remy murmured breathlessly. “What would Mother say…”

                “Something scandalized and frivolous, I’m sure.” Logan gave Emile a sharp look. He was eavesdropping. Emile had no business overhearing a private family matter. He looked back to Remy. “We have work to do, Remy.”

                Remy blinked a few times. “And… you plan to work… tomorrow, as well.”

                Logan quirked an eyebrow. “I thought that was established.”

                “This man has a _family,_ Uncle!” Remy shouted as he gestured to Emile. “He should be able to spend time, at home, with his family!”

                Frowning deeply, Logan sat back in his seat. “I don’t see why you’re so upset with my business practices, Remy.”

                Talking a startled step back, Remy glared at him. “It’s… a matter of _principal_ , Uncle. Families _should_ be together on the holiday.”

                Logan rolled his eyes. “Poppycock.”

                Smoothing a hand down the front of his satin vest, Remy took a deep, frustrated breath and sighed, “Just because you’re the clan pariah, it doesn’t give you any permission to lock this man in a freezing office –”

                “My office is _not_ frozen,” Logan defended.

                “—and then deny him a family Christmas!” Remy said, still flabbergasted.

                “I am not denying anyone anything,” Logan snapped, slamming his workbook closed. “If Mr. Picani _wanted_ Christmas day, he could take the day on his own expense.”

                Glowering at his uncle, Remy turned and looked to Emile for an answer. Emile could only duck his head and twiddle his ink quill. “I… can’t _afford_ … to take the day.”

                There was a pause. Just a beat of silence where Remy simply looked at Logan. Then, after that solid second, Remy shook his head. “And the reason he can’t afford it… is because you _refuse_ to pay him a working wage.”

                “Remy,” Logan warned, his eyes dark and irritated. Remy disregarded it.

                Remy took a step forward, pointing at Logan judgmentally. “Are you _so_ heartless that you will pinch your pennies to the grave?”

                “Remy,” Logan growled. “I will not ask you to leave again.”

                Emile stood from his desk, reaching for Remy but not quite stopping him. “Mr. Traum, please…”

                “You will go to hell with your last two coins on your eyes, Uncle.” Remy’s voice was low and accusatory, the kind of sound that made Logan’s temper flare. “Denying a man enough money to support his family…” Remy shook his head, clicking his tongue derisively.

                Standing from his chair, Logan slammed his hand down on the desk. “You will not come into _my_ workplace and tell me how to run a business! I pay Mr. Picani fairly!”

                “Oh?” Remy laughed, looking to Emile. “Does he?”

                Emile floundered, sputtering a bit when he said, “W-well…”

                “Enough!” Logan said. “I have work to do and you are disrupting my business!”

                “Look at your watch, Uncle,” Remy said, his voice smug and knowing as he pivoted his hips and leaned against Emile’s desk. “It’s two minutes past seven. Your ‘work day’ is _over_.”

                For a moment, Logan simply looked at his nephew. This _invasion_ of his privacy, this _disruption_ of his workday… it was heinous at its very best. Even so, Emile looked torn between the two of them; perhaps he was looking for permission to leave.

                Fishing into the pocket of his vest, Logan pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time… Remy was right. The work day was over. Heaving a sigh, Logan looked to Emile… and dismissed him with a flippant wave of his hand. “Go on, Mr. Picani,” he said, irritation dripping into his tone.

                Not wasting any time, Emile grabbed his scarf and coat from the back of his chair, threw them on and scrabbled out from behind his desk. He paused as he passed Remy, managing to mumble a breathless, smiling, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Traum.”

                Remy grinned mischievously. “Merry –”

                “Good _evening,_ Mr. Picani,” Logan said, trying to push Emile out the door faster than the Christmas greetings could be exchanged.

                “I’m sorry, Emile,” Remy said sarcastically as he mumbled, “My Uncle is being unreasonable.”

                Emile, quickly ducking his head, didn’t confirm this statement. Instead, he pushed his glasses up on his nose, mumbled a quick, “Good evening, Mr. Mend,” and darted out the door.

                Fine. Good riddance, then. The less time people twittered about a ridiculous holiday, the better. There was _work_ to be done. Couldn’t people see that? Didn’t they know just how much time was needlessly squandered when they decorated trees or wrapped presents? It was all a conspiracy to Logan. Just an excuse for the masses to take an undeserved day for themselves.

                That left Logan to pick up the slack, sadly. Not that he minded it. The quiet was calming. Better than being bombarded by family matters and drama. He was better off this way.

                And that wasn’t going to change just because Remy was standing over his desk, shaking his head and pouting.

                “Uncle,” he sighed tiredly as he shuffled his fine boots on the floor, “Why won’t you just… _come_ to our home for Christmas?”

                Logan adjusted his glasses as he closed his workbooks and gathered them into a pile. “I have work to do. People will always need money. Thus, I will _always_ have work to do.”

                Remy watched him as he started to organize the workbooks on their specific shelves. Shelves labeled with names, businesses, and loan types… on and on, the work never ended. Logan was well-supplied with things to do.

                “But,” Remy said, walking around the office pointedly. “You could take tomorrow off. Take the day. See your family…”

                “No,” Logan said as he placed the last book on the shelf. “Thank you.”

                There was a pause. A big enough pause to make Logan turn and look at his nephew. Remy was staring at him, those golden, honey-glow eyes swimming with _something_ that Logan didn’t dare to name. Judgement, maybe. Logan didn’t care for that. Perhaps pity. Logan didn’t have any _use_ for that.

                “What happened to you, Uncle?” Remy asked, his voice suddenly very soft. “Mother says that you used to be so kind when you two were young…” He gave Logan a long, long look. “What changed?”

                Logan lifted his chin. “I became a businessman, Remy. I didn’t have time to fritter away on useless tasks.”

                Remy smiled, but it wasn’t amused. It was sad… and lonely. “What a sad, sad man you are… it seems everyone in town is right.” His smile drooped, and Remy was glaring at Logan when he put his top hat back on. “You really are the sad, bitter old man everyone says you are.”

                Leaning his hands onto his desk, Logan gritted his teeth and hissed, “How _dare_ you…”

                Spinning on his heel, Remy sauntered toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

                “You’re not just leaving,” Logan shouted, his voice trembling with frustration. “I’m kicking you out of my office!”

                Remy stood – his hand on the doorknob, his foot halfway out the door – with a sly smile on his face. Logan paused; he saw his sister, Alissa, in that smile. That cleverness, that sharp wit… he really was his mother’s son.

                “Merry Christmas, Uncle,” Remy said. But there wasn’t any love in the words. He touched the front of his hat, a curt nod, before he swept out of the office and into the flow of the public streets.

+++++

                With smooth steps, Logan moved through the throngs of people. The streets were crowded… filled with children running, laughing. Parents shouting and doorbells ringing. Logan grimaced at the noise… how could anyone _think_ with all this madness?

                A man was dragging a freshly chopped tree through the street, a thin layer of pine needles and broken branches in his wake. Another Christmas tradition that took too much from its celebrators. It took too much effort. It took too much time and money. Logan frowned and turned up his collar. No doubt Emile Picani would’ve liked to have a tree like that for his son. Such a waste.

                What Logan wouldn’t give for his old business partner, Dmitri, to rise from the grave and take his place at his desk once more. Holidays weren’t nearly as tedious with him. Dmitri understood the value of money… the art of negotiation and the meaning of a steady hand.

                Sickness had taken Dmitri years ago… some sort of illness that baffled surgeons through the city. He’d worked until his last breath, though. Sitting beside Logan and winding his watch until he wouldn’t hold the damn trinket anymore. He’d been dedicated to the money. To his _work_. Logan could appreciate that; he’d been a man with values. A man of character. He knew better than to waste his time on momentary holiday madness.

                The climb up the hill to Logan’s home was blissfully quiet. Living on the edge of town provided privacy. Even the children of the town below rarely dared to sneak past his gates. Those that did, however, normally came in the winter, much to Logan’s chagrin. They came with their bobsleds and tore through the snow like wild animals… Logan would have to keep an eye out for them.

                As he approached the front door, Logan found a note stuck between the door and the frame. He frowned; what person would leave a note there? The mail slot was _in_ the door. Were they openly defying logic just to annoy him? Or was the sender truly dense?

                Snatching the note from the door, Logan opened the paper and read the short message within.

                _They come in three. The clock strikes 3-2-1. Wind your watch._

                Logan’s brow furrowed. The message seemed fractured… like someone hadn’t been able to gather their thoughts before writing it down. Grammatically, it was abhorrent. Logically, it was impossible. Clocks did _not_ strike backwards. Unless the clock maker had been half-mad when constructing it. Shaking his head, Logan stuffed the note into his pocket… and froze.

                There, in the place where the knocker on his door _should_ be, was the face of Dmitri Duell, his former business partner. It was a carving of him made from copper, a perfect rendition of his face, right down to the sly smile he always used to wear. Even the brass had been tarnished on the left side, where he’d had a large birthmark in life. Logan blinked. How had he not _seen_ that when he walked up to his door? Who put it there? Was it a joke? A sick prank? The face of his dead business partner… on his front door?

                Taking a step back, Logan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Once he put his glasses back on, he was startled to see the doorknocker was the same circle it had always been. The plain, worn brass was glinting dully in the sallow light of the far away street lamp. There was no carving of Dmitri. It was just… gone. Logan shook his head and shouldered his way into the house.

                He shed his jacket and hung it on the wrack near the door, still puzzling over the doorknocker. Had it been a trick of the light? Perhaps he’d been thinking too heavily on his old workmate… Emile had never quite lived up to Logan’s expectations, after all. It seemed rational to miss Dmitri, even now.

                Trying to shake off the odd encounter, Logan went through the routine of preparing himself dinner. While the soup heated in the kitchen, he started a fire in the den. He would eat there, just like always. In the quiet, as per the usual. With the crackle of the fire as his conversation and a book as his company. It was a peaceable night. He was content to let it stay that way. His mind mulled his book, and he ate leisurely.

                The clock struck ten. No worry yet… he had plenty of time to sit and read before he went to sleep. To go to work early in the morning, he’d have to retire by midnight at the latest.

                The clock stuck eleven. Logan paused in his reading. There was something he was forgetting… an account left unbalanced? A payment past due? He couldn’t recall. He’d have to check the books in the morning.

                The clock struck midnight, and Logan lifted his eyes from his book. The log in the fireplace had smoldered down to faintly glowing coals, the hint of heat barely touching Logan where he sat. Sniffling a bit, Logan snapped his book shut and set it aside. Something was still prickling at the back of his mind… a forgotten note? A missed label? It irritated him.

                He climbed the stairs of his bedroom with a small lamp. The glass chimney rattled loudly in the empty house, but Logan was used to it. It was a normal sound to accompany the _click_ of his pocket watch chain as he unclipped it from his vest pocket. He needed to wind the watch soon… but why was _that_ so forward in his mind?

                He grimaced and went through the motions of preparing for bed, taking off his jacket and leaving it on the bed. His vest was hung up and his trousers were chucked into the bin with all his other dirty clothes, and he pulled a nightshirt on over his head. When he went to hang up his jacket, a piece of paper fell from his pocket.

                He froze. The note. The one left in his door. He picked up the note slowly, setting it on his dressing table as his coat slipped from his fingers. He was still puzzled. _They come in three_ , it had said. _The clock strikes 3-2-1_. Was it a warning? Or a statement? A childish prank… or a real threat?

                Logan sat on the edge of his bed, giving the note on the dressing table a sidelong look. It was certainly _something_. Something about the note didn’t give it a benign air… it seemed heavy with purpose. Or, perhaps that was Logan’s experience with important documents. He could be overestimating the meaning of the note.

                Again, it could just be a prank. Logan nodded to himself as he took off his glasses and set them on the dressing table. A prank. A joke in the smaller minds of young children. Children with too much time on their hands. He pushed back the blankets and sidled down under the covers. Those children would be more useful put to work… would it be better to put them to work in the factories that were popping up around the city? Yes… yes, perhaps it would. It would definitely spare Logan a headache.

                Lying back, Logan let his eyes close against the flickering flame of the oil lamp. The flame continued to dance behind the glass chimney, the yellow glow highlighting Logan’s tired eyes. He breathed deep, recounting all the days’ work… accounts were closed. Money was earned. Emile had been waved away… after all his frittering about an advance in his pay, he’d given up easily enough. And then there was Remy. Oh, Remy… he was more well-behaved when he was younger. Now he was twenty-five years old and a rapscallion at best. He’d yet to choose a wife… and he was constantly nosing his way into Logan’s business.

                If Logan cared, he might’ve said something to his sister. But he didn’t. He didn’t have _time_ for family. He didn’t have _time_ to care about his nephews’ poor life choices. He was busy. A responsible adult working his responsible job. He was -- Logan’s thoughts were startled to a stop when his grandfather clock chimed.

                It was loud, like the ring of a gong through the empty house. He sat up, confused and irritated. Was it already one in the morning? Had he been sitting and stewing in his thoughts for an hour? The clock struck again, a long, dull note that rang long and heavy in the night air. Logan felt his chest tighten uncomfortably; it wasn’t two o’clock. It couldn’t be. Besides, the clock didn’t have long pauses between the chimes like this… what was this?

                When the clock rang a third time, Logan was prepared for it. He braced himself, waiting for the clock to strike again… but it didn’t. Just a dream? A malfunction of the clock? Or… something else? Logan shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, that was it. Remy’s sudden appearance in his office had shaken him. Not to mention seeing Dmitri’s face in the doorknocker… it had been a trying day. Nothing more. Nothing less.

                “Look at you… so comfortable… so blissfully unware,” A voice echoed through the room, startling Logan where he sat in bed. Instinctively, Logan reached for his glasses, pushing them onto his face as he searched for the intruder. The dim light of the oil lamp wobbled, casting trembling shadows along the wall as Logan held out the lamp in the air, shakily trying to reveal the face behind the voice.

                “Don’t you know me?” The voice asked, a hint of laughter in the words. Logan grasped the blankets beneath him, still trembling as he fought to find the man in the shadows. He _knew_ that voice. But it couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be. “Oh, old friend… oh, Logan… how long has it been?”

                Logan’s breath caught as Dmitri Duell stepped out of the shadows, bathed in a strange, blue light that was hazy at the edges. He was pale and thin, his skin pulled too tight over his bones. Dark circles highlighted sunken eyes, and long chains were hanging from his old partners’ arms and legs, wrapped around him like snakes trying to choke the life out of him. He looked like a prisoner, forced to carry his own chains.

                “Dmitri,” Logan breathed, seeing the way his old friend smiled darkly. “You… what are you?”

                “Dead.” Dmitri took a shambling step forward, his chains dragging and clattering against the wood floors. “Dead and cursed, as you will be.”

                “As I… what?” Logan scrambled out of bed, eager to get away from the specter. He held out the flame between them, keeping a distance when Dmitri moved a bit closer, those damned chairs dragging behind him. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

                “Greed, old friend. It’s _greed_ that does this to us,” Dmitri smiled cruelly, his chains rattling ominously as he stood completely still. “After so many lies I’ve told… after so many lives I’ve ruined… it all takes its toll.”

                “Lies?” Logan echoed incredulously. What kind of dream was this? A nonsensical one, at the least… “You… you were an honest business man. I never once heard you lie.”

                Laughing a bit, Dmitri started to walk around the room slowly, dragging his chains along with him as he went. “You’re naive,” Dmitri grumbled as he rounded the room. “I always hated that about you. Always seeing things in black and white.”

                Logan nearly stumbled back into his dressing table. He and Dmitri had gotten along so well. At least, that’s what Logan had thought. Was he wrong? Or was his subconscious trying to fool him?

                “Oh _, stop it_ ,” Dmitri snapped, his chains rattling as they skittered wildly along the floor when Dmitri turned to face him. “This isn’t a dream, you old twit. This is a warning of what’s to come.”

                Setting the lamp on the dressing table – Logan didn’t have the nerve to hold it anymore – Logan leaned against the corner of the table for support as he breathed, “W-warning? What kind of warning?”

                As if to prove a point, Dmitri lifted his arms and rattled his chains with a thin smile. “You’re on a long, dark road, old friend. Selfishness… greed… it’s all punishable.” He shook a chain for emphasis before whispering, “And these chains aren’t just for show. They’re heavy. Like the weight of the people I stepped on while climbing the social ladder… it’s heavy, old friend. So… damned… heavy…”

                Logan swallowed. “The chains. Are they the ‘curse’ that you mentioned?”

                Dmitri pursed his lips and hummed tiredly. “Perhaps. Perhaps it’s more of a punishment. Perhaps I don’t remember anymore.”

                Frowning a bit, Logan narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t making sense.”

                "Liars don’t have to make sense,” Dmitri smiled as he stepped a little closer to Logan. Logan stumbled back, tripping over the edge of his dressing table as he pressed himself to the far wall. Dmitri smiled wider. “It’s the price you pay, old friend. A lifetime of greed is paid in chains after death.”

                Logan stiffened. “After death…”

                Dmitri’s eyes were wide and wild when he hissed, “Yes. You will walk this earth, bound by the chains of the lives you ruined. Weighed down by the emptiness. Marred by the lies.” The chains slunk along the floor, almost like they were alive and creeping toward Logan. Logan, seeing the chains drawing near, pressed himself to the wall. He was backed into a corner, forced to lift his eyes and look into Dmitri Duell’s empty green eyes as he said, “Just like me, old friend. _Just. Like. Me_.”

                This was a dream. Logan tried to close his eyes against the madness and reassure himself. It was only a dream. It couldn’t hurt him. This wasn’t real.

                “It’s real,” Dmitri scoffed with a twist of his chains. “And inescapable. You will be visited by three spirits,” he said, still watching Logan carefully from the middle of the room. “Three spirits that will show the consequences of your actions. Just like they did for me.”

                “S-spirits?” Logan sputtered, his head spinning where he was pressed against the wall. He blinked hard, shaking his head. “No… there’s no such thing. This… isn’t real.”

                Shrugging tiredly, Dmitri took a step forward, flicking a chain forward with ease. It landed at Logan’s feet, the metal scaping against itself loudly as Logan flinched away. There was a laugh on Dmitri’s tongue when he said, “Oh, Logan… do you really think you have a choice?”

                The chains leapt up, toward Logan. He raised his arms to stop them, to defend himself, but they snagged his wrists, constricting like serpents as he shouted in alarm. He pulled and kicked, stumbling and sliding down onto the floor as the chains dragged him forward… toward Dmitri.

                “Stop!” Logan begged, still struggling in the hold of the chains. “This… can’t be… it’s not real!” Though the pain of the metal _felt_ real. The chains bit into his wrists, carelessly pulling him across the floor until he was at a heap at Dmitri’s feet. He looked up at his old partner, mortified by the grim smile that greeted him. “Please,” Logan whimpered breathlessly. “Please, don’t…”

                Dmitri smiled, but there was no warmth in it. He reached out a hand, his touch barely whispering over Logan’s hair when he said, “They come in three, Logan. Mind the clock.”

                And then the world went black.

+++++

                Logan woke with a start, his eyes snapping open as he quickly sat up. His bedroom was dark. The oil lamp had flickered out, and the glass chimney was cold. The only light in his room was the subtle glow of a crescent moon through the far window. It was quiet. No chimes of the clock. No chains.

                No Dmitri Duell.

                With a huff, Logan laid back down, pushing the heel of his hands against his closed eyes. Perhaps he was overworked. Stress leading to a dramatic nightmare of some sort. Yes, Logan reasoned, that made the most sense. Fatigue from doing his job; he was, after all, pulling his own weight along with Emile’s. Emile had been… distracted as of late. Probably because of his son. Either way, it was unfair to Logan, who had to pick up the slack.

                Abruptly, the grandfather clock rang loud. Once… twice… and then all was silent. Logan laid stiff in bed, not daring to move. He didn’t take his hands from his eyes. If the nightmare decided to resurface, he was not going to be a willing participant.

                Even so, the sounds of his nightmare met his ears. The sound of footsteps… like small, bare feet padding along the cold, wooden floors echoed through the hallway outside his room. A dream? Or an intruder? He held still, waiting. Listening. Holding his breath as the steps drew closer.

                Soft, gentle _tap, tap, taps_ of bare feet along the floor. They came to his doorway. Stopped. Then walked over the threshold of his bedroom, drawing closer to the bed. Logan braced himself; he wasn’t going to sit quietly if someone was trying to smother him in his sleep.

                “I mean you no harm,” a soft voice said. So gentle. So knowing. It had been the opposite with Dmitri. This voice… it was a kind one.

                Lowering his hands from his eyes, Logan put on his glasses to see a spectral spirit standing on the left side of his bed. It wasn’t nearly as corporeal as Dmitri had been… no, this spirit was translucent, and their outline was hazy, like a dying flame. Tall and soft, he stood over Logan with the height of a fully grown man… his face, however, was surprisingly youthful. A smile that was childish in its innocence and glowing blue eyes that glittered with something soft. Specs of light caught on its cheeks, glimmering in different patterns of freckles as the spirit smiled.

                “Good evening, Mr. Mend,” the spirit said, its voice ringing with joy and sorrow all at once. Logan frowned. This dream was getting out of hand.

                “Good evening, Spirit,” he muttered as he sat up in bed tiredly. “Dmitri told me that you’d be coming. He said you come in threes.”

                The spirit giggled a bit at that. “I don’t think so, Mr. Mend… there’s only me. I’m the only me there’s ever been. The past is always the past. That will never change.”

                Riddles? Logan didn’t much care for riddles in the middle of the night. He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

                “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, Mr. Mend,” the spirit said, a childish glimmer in his eyes as they held a hand to his breast. “And the others will come after. However… I’ve come to show you something very important.”

                Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Logan swung his legs over the edge of his bed, stuffing his feet into his slippers. “It seems I have no choice,” he grumbled. “I can’t escape this dream.”

                The spirit cocked his head to the side, curious at this statement. “You think… this is a dream?”

                “Of course,” Logan said as he tied his dressing gown tight around himself. He gestured to the spirit with a flippant wave of his hand. “Ghost and spirits are the inventions of a weak mind. I’m sure I’ll wake up soon… in the meantime, I might as well go along with this nonsense.”

                The spirit of Christmas past – nothing but idiocy, in Logan’s mind – narrowed his eyes, but didn’t comment on that statement. He merely held out a small, thin hand.

                “Come with me, Mr. Mend,” the spirit asked, though there was no room for question in the statement. It was a command. A beckoning call that Logan couldn’t deny. Those glowing blue eyes, the curl of hair lost in a half-corporeal glow… Logan couldn’t help but reach out and take the hand that was offered. The spirit smiled. “Let’s find a happy Christmas.”

                Without warning, the room filled with light, blinding Logan enough that he had to tear his hand from the hold of the spirit to shield his eyes. His feet were lifted off the floor, only to be dropped back down… on uneven ground. He stumbled, then fell back into the cold snow of the countryside.

                What _was_ this dream? It _felt_ real. The spirits hand had been soft… the snow was cold… and the sunlight beating down on him was certainly bright. Struggling in his dressing gown, Logan clambered out of the snowbank, finding himself standing at the feet of the spirit.

                “You dropped me!” He shouted, too cold to articulate a full flurry of furious insults. “You dropped me in the _snow_!”

                The spit of Christmas past gave him a curious look of childish innocence. “You let go of my hand,” he said plainly, as if this forgave everything.

                Logan frowned and shook his head, stuffing his hands under his arms to keep himself warm. “’Spirit’ nothing… you’re an imp, that’s what you are…”

                The spirit didn’t confirm or deny. It simply looked off in the distance. Logan followed his gaze, seeing a cozy house nestled on a hill. Logan blinked; that was his grandparents’ house. He’d lived there with his sister, so many years ago… it felt like a lifetime had passed between now and then.

                When Logan blinked, he found himself standing at the window of the house, looking inside. He startled, stumbling back and giving the spirit a wide-eyed look of baffled wonder. But the spirit didn’t look at him. It was watching the window. Logan turned, seeing himself as a young man, tying his sisters’ hair up. He remembered doing that... so long ago… he must’ve been twelve years-old at the time. That would make Alissa… what? Nine years-old? They were so _young._ What could the spirit hope to prove with this? Why would it bring him _here_?

                “You’ll need to learn to do this on your own, Alissa,” Logan chuckled as he pulled the satin ribbon into a neat bow. “I won’t always be here to do your hair.”

                “Don’t you _dare_ say things like that,” Alissa gasped in a scandalized tone. She turned and wrapped her arms around Logan’s middle, hugging herself tight to him. “You’ll always be here, brother. You’ll _always_ be here.”

                Logan, quirking an eyebrow, gave his sister a fond look. “Is that right?”

                “It’s as sure as snow falls on Christmas day, Logan,” Alissa grinned up at him before flicking the frame of his glasses. When Logan flinched and stumbled back, Alissa laughed and dashed away with Logan in hot pursuit, shouting: “You’ll be sorry for that, you little imp!”

                At the window, Logan shifted his weight between his feet uneasily. He remembered nights like those, long ago. Chasing his sister around the house, laughing and tearing through their grandparents’ home without care and without worry. It was before he knew the state of their affairs. Before he knew the weight of responsibility.

                “You were happy,” the spirit said, more of a question than a statement. Logan hummed thoughtfully, and the spirit turned to look at him with those glowing blue eyes. “Why did that change?”

                Turning his head, Logan met those blue eyes with a hint of sadness. Those eyes… had they always looked so wise? Through the hazy glow of the spirit, Logan almost saw wrinkles around his eyes. An innocence that was faded with time, aged with knowledge and softened with memory. Logan was almost envious of that… what he would give to still be so guiltless, but still so wise.

                “I’m…” Logan started, then stopped, unsure of what he could say. Why _did_ things change? Was it simply the passage of time? Or had something significant occurred? He looked away from the spirit, looking through the window tiredly. “Things changed, I suppose.”

                Considering this, the spirit nodded quietly. “They do. The past melts together quickly… maybe you cannot remember exactly what it was that changed.”

                “Yes.” Logan frowned. “Perhaps.”

                The spirit didn’t respond to that. He was watching the window again, admiring the people that entered the room. These weren’t children anymore… no, Logan was watching himself, a young man of seventeen years, walking through the room with purpose and dignity. Alissa was hot on his heels, her long brown curls falling over her shoulder, much longer than when she was twelve. Now, she was a growing young lady of fourteen years.

                “You’re _leaving_?” She cried, more out of disbelief than confirmation. Logan didn’t look at her as he picked up his pocket watch from the nearby table and tucked it into the pocket of his vest.

                “Yes,” Logan said crisply as he threw his jacket over his shoulders with a flourish. “There is work to be done, and I have an offer in the city from a successful clerk.”

                “But,” Alissa sputtered, trying to grab Logan’s arm and hold tight. “B-but! Can’t you wait until Christmas is over? Can’t you just… just…! Stay with us? As a family?”

                “No, I can’t.” Pulling himself from Alissa’s grip, Logan buttoned his jacket and headed for the doorway. “Grandfather and Grandmother can’t support us forever, Lissa. You _know_ that. I need to learn from this clerk… with hope, I can earn myself a decent living.”

                Throwing her hands in the air, Alissa shook her head. “Money, money, money… that’s all you talk about! We’re _children_ , Logan. Can’t you at least _act_ like one? For one day? Stay here. Stay with us for Christmas?”

                Turning on his heel sharply, Logan glared at his sister with dark eyes. “ _You_ are a child, Alissa. _You_ may want to throw caution to the wind and forget that our family struggles with their finances, but I cannot. I am your elder brother.”

                “You are _still_ a _child_ ,” Alissa snapped. “It’s not your responsibility to take over our family finances!”

                “If not now, then when?” Logan asked, his arms spread wide. “When Grandfather passes on, _I_ will be the head of the family! The responsibility will fall to me!”

                Alissa shook her head, still trying to deny the fact. “No. No… Logan, just –”

                “Enough!” Logan shouted, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. “I’m leaving.”

                He stomped out of the room, Alissa following close behind. “Logan!” She cried, trying to stop him. “Don’t just leave!” But the cries fell on deaf ears. The door of the house opened and slammed shut, leaving the house in a quiet, uncomfortable silence. Alissa walked back into the room, her head hung low and her hands limp at her sides. She took a seat, looking defeated… before she buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

                Leaning away from the window, Logan looked away. “I don’t… I don’t want to see this,” he said softly, reaching out to the spirit that was still watching the window. “Please… don’t show me this.”

                The spirit looked at him, mildly surprised by that statement. “You don’t have a choice, Mr. Mend,” he said softly, his voice gentle but firm. “This is where things began to change. You have to know why things are different.”

                When the spirit turned to watch the window once more, Logan dreaded to follow his stare… even so, he turned to the frosted glass, watching another scene unfold inside. Alissa walked through the room, a young woman now. She must have been eighteen, by then. She was wringing her hands anxiously, pacing the room in quick, agitated steps. Logan frowned; he didn’t remember this. What _was_ this memory?

                Slowly, Logan watched his grandmother walk into the room, aged and frail, she watched Alissa carefully for a moment. “Dear girl,” she said gently, “Come sit. A lady shouldn’t fret like this.”

                “I’m not fretting,” Alissa said sharply, waving her grandmother away. “I’m just waiting.”

                “Alissa,” her grandmother said softly, “He isn’t coming. You know how he is about work… he hasn’t come home for _years_.”

                “He’ll come,” Alissa said, sure of her conviction. She watched the door, her hands clasped together tightly as she repeated, “He’ll come. I’m sure. He’ll be here soon.”

                Taking a step back from the window, Logan took a shaky breath. Alissa had been waiting for _him_. All those years… all that time spent waiting, wishing, hoping… only to have Logan never come home. But… why did that make him feel guilty? He had been _working_. Helping earn money for his family. Or, at least that’s what he’d told himself… his grandparents had never accepted the money. Alissa refused it, as well. Logan frowned in realization. What had he been working for, all those years? What was it all for, in the face of this?

                The money had amassed to a small fortune… and still, he hadn’t returned home.

                “She missed you,” the spirit murmured gently. “So much so, she found herself in the company of a strange, older man.”

                Logan frowned. “I didn’t push my sister to have a child out of wedlock. That was her own decision.”

                The spirit turned to look at him, blue eyes sharp with judgement. “No. No, you didn’t… but a bit of guidance might’ve helped her, in her vulnerable years.”

                “Oh?” Logan chuckled, “How could I have helped her, all those years ago?”

                The crying of a baby cut into their conversation, and Logan turned to the window once more. Alissa was laid back on the sofa, her face wet with tears and her hair wiry and messy. A baby wriggled in her arms, crying and fussy as Alissa attempted to comfort him. It was Remy. Just a baby. Just born. Crying out while Alissa, only nineteen years-old, futilely tried to calm him.

                Their grandparents had died that previous spring, leaving Alissa to care for the child all on her own. With no one to show her how. With no one to help. She had been alone, as far as Logan knew.

                “Did anyone hold her hand?” The spirit asked quietly, cementing guilt in Logan’s stomach. “Did anyone comfort her? Or did she labor alone?”

                There was a pause. The spirit was expecting an answer, even though he already knew it. Logan let out a long, tired sigh. “I don’t know.”

                The spirit gave Logan a sidelong look. “You weren’t there for her.”

                “I was working at the time,” Logan said flatly. It was no excuse. But he said it anyway. “I didn’t know that she’d given birth until a letter came to me, several days after.”

                “Oh?” The spirit asked softly, genuinely curious. “So, when you received the letter, you went to her? Comforted her?”

                Logan grimaced. This spirit _knew_ his answer. He just wanted Logan to confirm it. He just wanted Logan to acknowledge what he’d done, all those years ago.

                “No,” Logan muttered. “I didn’t. I kept to myself. I sent a letter.”

                The spirit watched him. “A letter.”

                “Yes, a letter. I told her that if she needed financial assistance, she could…” Logan paused, scrubbing a hand over his face before sighing, “I said that she could write me, if she needed money.”

                The spirit nodded slowly. “But you didn’t go to her… you left her on her own.”

                “I couldn’t help her!” Logan defended himself crossly, taking a step back from the window. “I don’t know anything about children! I would’ve been more of a hinderance than a help!”

                “Logan,” the spirit said lowly. Logan pressed his lips together tightly, watching the way the spirit watched him with those tired, blue eyes. The spirit looked terribly sad as he said, “Is that what you actually believe?”

                Logan didn’t answer.

                The spirit didn’t ask again.

                Instead, the spirit held out his hand. “Come with me, Mr. Mend,” he said softly. “There’s one more thing you should see.”

                This time, Logan didn’t put up a fight. He took the spirits’ hand and held tight. He didn’t want to let go prematurely again. The spirit intertwined their fingers, holding him fast as the light around them brightened to blinding. Logan closed his eyes, shielding his eyes as he was lifted off the ground… and deposited on the cobblestone steps of the city. He stumbled a bit, finding his footing as he gripped the spirits’ hand tighter.

                The where in the city… but why? And where? The streets were still bustling, but standing under the awning of a building, Logan was sheltered from the crowds. The spirit held his hand, looking through the window of the building. Logan followed his gaze, seeing himself… sitting at his desk… and working away through the evening hours. The Logan that was inside the building was younger by several years, hunched over his desk and counting his coins like his life depended on it.

                “This is Christmas day,” the spirit said, “Ten years ago.”

                Logan took a breath, frowning at the sight of himself. It was natural for him to be in his office every day of the year, working away. People always needed money… and that was what always drove his work ethic. Work was always needed. He _couldn’t_ leave his office. He was _needed_ there.

                The spirit gave him a look, then said, “And… eleven years ago.”

                Logan blinked, and looked through the window. Another version of himself was still in the office. Scribbling away at one of his workbooks. Because he was needed. Even as a younger man. Because he had no one to go home to. At that time, Alissa was with Remy and her husband… a man that Logan had never bothered to meet.

                A pause, and the spirit said, “Twelve years ago.”

Logan was still at his desk, working. Twelve years ago… Alissa had gotten married to her husband, all that time ago. On Christmas day, no less. Logan hadn’t attended the wedding. He’d been busy with work. Work couldn’t stop for a day just because of something as trivial as a wedding. At least, that’s the excuse he remembered giving.

                “Thirteen years ago,” the spirit continued, watching the way Logan worked at his desk, year after year. Younger and younger… but still working away. “Fourteen years ago… fifteen years… sixteen years…”

                Logan felt himself shaking, trembling at the sight of his life being worked away in that small room. How much of Alissa’s life had he missed? How many years had been needlessly wasted away? How many times had Alissa waited for him to come walking through the door? How many times had she been all alone, hoping for him to appear?

                The spirit went on, “Seventeen years ago… eighteen –”

                “Enough!” Logan snapped, tearing his hand away from the spirits’ as he stumbled back a few steps. His hands shook. His heart ached. What _was_ this? Underlying shame? Latent guilt for ignoring his sister? Logan tightened his dressing robe about himself, tugging at the tie furiously as he shouted, “Why are we here? Why are you showing me this?”

                The spirit looked at him, quiet and calm. After a moment, the spirit spoke in a soft voice. “All those years, Mr. Mend… all those years alone… and what was it for?”

                It was an innocent question. One that Logan had a feeling he knew the answer to… but didn’t want to speak aloud. It had been for the security of his finances. A fear of not being able to support himself… it had started off as a noble venture. He’d wanted to be able to support the entire Mend family… but when he didn’t come home to see them, they had started to alienate him. They denied the money. So… in the end… all the money had just pooled in his own account.

                He’d been working all those years under the false justification that, somehow, it was for his family. So, now that he was proved wrong, what in the world had he been working for? All this time on his own. All those years without his sister… without his nephew… what did it all mean?

                Blinking, Logan was startled with something dropped onto his hands. He looked down, seeing drops of water on his cold, thin hands. Water? He blinked again, and more drops fell into his open palms. Logan stiffened; he was crying.

                He hadn’t cried in… well, it seemed like years. He hadn’t been emotionally struck by… _anything_. It was always work. Work came first, work came second… there was no room for sentiment. But now, faced with his own neglect, he was openly weeping in front of his office. He tore off his glasses, wiping furiously at his eyes as he coughed and choked on frozen air. The tears didn’t stop, though.

                And the spirit merely watched him, those knowing blue eyes and youthful face observing his breakdown with an odd sort of detachment.

                Logan had missed watching his sister growing up into the fine woman that she was. He missed seeing his nephew grow up. He knew _nothing_ of his brother-in-law. He’d missed it all… and for what? Money that he never spent? Money that he needlessly hoarded?

                When hands came to rest on Logan’s shoulders, he lifted his face from his hands. His breath fogged the air, and tears blurred his vision, but Logan could see the hazy, smoky glow of the spirit as it pulled him in and embraced him. The spirit held him. Comforted him. Held him tight and pat Logan’s back as he continued to cry over his own mistakes.

                “The past is the past,” the spirit whispered into Logan’s hair. “And that cannot be changed. It’s a waste regretting what could have been.”

                Logan gripped the spirit, holding onto what seemed like cloth as he pulled back and blubbered, “Then what can I do? How can I fix what’s been so badly wronged?”

                The spirit smiled softly, his eyes wrinkling at the corners when he said, “I am the Spirit of Christmas Past, Mr. Mend. I hold no sway over the future.”

                Without warning, Logan was back in his bedroom. The oil lamp on his dressing table flickered to life, illuminating the room as Logan stumbled and found his footing on the wood floor. The spirit took his hands, leading him back to bed and sitting him down. Logan had no fight in him as he fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling in defeated frustration.

                The spirit set his glasses on the dressing table and turned to leave… but Logan caught his wrist and held fast. “Don’t go,” Logan begged softly, watching the way the spirits’ eyes widened and glimmered. “Please don’t leave me here, all alone.”

                A pause. And then… the spirit smiled. He sat on the side of Logan’s bed, his body still transparent and the starlight freckles on his cheeks glowing subtly in the firelight. “I’ll stay as long as I’m able,” the spirit promised, giving Logan’s hand a fond pat. “The past will _always_ attempt to comfort you… but you mustn’t let it overwhelm you.”

                Logan blinked sleepily, feeling a strange wave of fatigue wash over him. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

                The spirit laughed a little, a gentle, childish giggle that made his eyes glow and freckles shimmer. “You don’t have to, Mr. Mend.”

                Struggling to keep his eyes open, Logan blinked hard, forcing his eyes to open just a bit longer. The spirit leaned over and retrieved the oil lamp, lifting the glass chimney and blowing out the flame. The room as engulfed in darkness… or had Logan’s eyes closed? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the spirit – or perhaps someone else – pushed his hair from his forehead and pressed a kiss to his temple.

                This, more than anything else, lulled Logan into a deep sleep.

+++++

                When Logan opened his eyes, it was not to a silent house. He was startled awake by the clock striking once, echoing in the empty halls like the death toll of Logan’s memories. He laid in bed, heart heavy and mind spinning.

                Had that been a dream? Or… had some spirit… some… _something_ … come from beyond the veil to reveal a truth to him? It was still weighing on his mind; those Christmases without Alissa and the neglect of his family. It pain was real. The hollowness in his heart ached. He was... dare he say it?

                He was _lonely_.

                Before Logan could sit up and get a stiff drink to wash away the troubling thoughts, he was surprised by the booming sound of laughter that rattled the pictures on the walls and the books on their shelves. It was as if a giant had taken up residence in Logan’s house, shaking the walls with mirth as Logan fell out of bed from sheer surprise.

                “What…” Logan breathed, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands. “What in _heavens’_ name…”

                He wrapped his dressing gown around himself comfortably, pulling the belt tight as he slowly made his way to the door. The laughter had stopped, but Logan could distinctly hear the sound of… was that music? Coming from the foyer?

                Logan crept around the edge of his doorway, peeking his head out the door and sneaking a glance down the stairs. Waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs was a mountain of a man dressed in a green robe. A red sash marked his breast, and his rosy cheeks glowed as he waved Logan down the stairs. With a crown of holly upon his curling brown hair, he looked like a colorful king standing amid the grays and browns of Logan’s old home.

                “Come, come! Don’t be shy!” He laughed, almost amused by Logan’s confusion. “We have precious little time, my friend. The present waits for no man.”

                Slowly making his way down the stairs, Logan tugged at his dressing gown anxiously. “You… you must be another spirit.”

                Tipping his head to look down at Logan, the spirit gave Logan a sparkling smile. “I am, indeed. The Spirit of Christmas Present.”

                Logan fidgeted; the spirit was _enormous_. He had to crane his neck back just to meet his eye. The top of Logan’s head hardly came up to his elbow. And he was eager to pull Logan along without so much as an explanation. It was strange… such a drastic change from the soothing, coddling presence of the Spirit of Christmas Past.

                “I suspect you have something to show me,” Logan said tiredly, looking everywhere but at the spirit. “Another terrible memory, I presume.”

                Letting out another round of booming laughter, the spirit shook his head fondly. “Oh-ho… Mr. Mend, you don’t seem to understand. I am the _Present_. I have nothing to do with your past.”

                Making a sour face at that, Logan tilted his head back to see the spirit’s glimmering eyes. There were wrinkles around those eyes. He’d been smiling for so many years, laughing so happily, it had left a permanent mark on his features. Logan had no such features. He sighed and looked away.

                “So, you’ve come to show me… the present? This Christmas?”

                Thinking for a moment, the Spirit twirled a long lock of curling hair around his finger before smiling down at Logan. “I’ve come to take you to a party, my friend. A party that, by your word, you will not attend.”

                Before Logan could object – attending a party he had declined? It was a major social blunder – the spirit threw an enormous arm around Logan’s shoulders and pulled him in. Logan was shielded in the large, heavy velvet of the spirits’ cloak, and when he pushed away from the constraining hold, he found himself standing in an unfamiliar house.

                There was the sound of conversation flowing through the room, the crackle of the fireplace along the far wall, and the smell of freshly made bread permeating the air. Logan startled at the sight of strangers surrounding him; where on earth was he?

                “Mother!” Logan jumped at the sound of Remy’s voice from behind him, and he turned to see his nephew saunter through the door with a cocky bounce in his walk. Logan blinked in realization. If Remy had come home to his mother, then… “Merry Christmas!” Remy said, walking past Logan and into the open arms of a woman standing by the far wall.

                Logan spun on his heel to see Alissa holding Remy close with a warm smile on her face. Logan’s breath caught; his sister looked so _different_ from what he remembered. She was no longer a little girl with a satin ribbon in her hair. She all grown up. An adult. A _mother_. Dressed in fine petticoats and laced with pearls around her neck… she was a picture of aristocracy and grace.

                “Remy, darling,” she said, her voice almost scolding as she held Remy’s wrist and examined his cufflinks. “Are those my pearl earrings on your cuffs?”

                “Merry _Christmas_ , Mother,” Remy said, trying to deflect the question as he kissed her cheek. She hummed suspiciously, but that fond smile never left her face.

                “Remy,” an older man said as he handed Remy a small tumbler of brandy. He gave Remy’s attire a long look before he smiled smugly. “Wearing my vest again, hmm?”

                Logan blinked; this man… _he_ was Alissa’s husband? He was dressed in a fine-tailored suit that must’ve cost a fortune. His beard was cleanly trimmed and turning gray with age, and his full head of hair was combed back nicely. He radiated power and influence… but there was a warmth around him. A warmth that Logan almost envied.

                 Remy, to his credit, smoothed a hand over his torso calmly. “It fits perfectly, doesn’t it?”

                Remy’s father huffed a laugh and took a drink from his cup before answering. “I suppose… it’s always good to see you dressed _nicely_ when you go out on the town to prowl.”

                Alissa gave her husband a sharp look. “Leave him be, Daniel. He’s a young man.”

                “Sure to find a young lady?” Daniel asked, quirking an eyebrow as he raised a glass to Remy expectantly. “It’s about time you found a woman… someone who can make an honest man of you, son.”

                Squirming uncomfortably at the topic, Remy took his mothers’ elbow and pulled her away. “Just a moment, Father? We need to have a little talk about Uncle Logan.”

                Daniel scoffed. “ _Logan_ … what kind of ‘uncle’ is that man supposed to be?”

                “Daniel,” Alissa said firmly. “Please don’t. We’ve talked about this.”

                “He’s never come home, Alissa!” Daniel exclaimed, sharp and irritated as he waved his glass of brandy in the air wildly. “A shame of a brother, that one… a damn shame. You deserved better.”

                Logan winced away from the words. While they may have been true, it burned to hear them spoken aloud. Next to him, the Spirit of Christmas Present tilted his head to the side, smiling at the scene unfolding with interest.

                “Quite the party, hmm?” The spirit said, giving Logan a long, knowing look from the corner of his eye. “I’ve always enjoyed a lively gathering.”

                Fidgeting unhappily, Logan watched as Remy and Alissa walked to the other side of the room, speaking to each other by the window quietly.

                “I’m not particularly fond of parties,” Logan muttered, but he made no move to leave. In fact, he walked toward his sister and nephew. He was curious. Did Alissa agree with her husband? Or… or was there still hope? Would she still be willing to let him back into her life? Would she be open to change?

                Alissa looked tired when she looked down at the windowsill and sighed, “So, he isn’t coming. I’m not sure why is bothers me so… he’s been cooped up in his office for years.” She lifted her eyes, and Logan swore he could’ve seen tears glistening in her eyes before she blinked them away. “I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

                Remy crossed his arms over his chest and glared out the window. “Honestly, I don’t give a _damn_ what Uncle does anymore.”

                “Remy,” Alissa hissed, holding a hand to her breast in alarm. “Watch your language. There are _ladies_ present.”

                When Remy turned to his mother, Logan could see fire in his eyes as he whispered back, “He’s got Emile _chained_ to that damn desk, Mother. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted.”

                Alissa let out a longsuffering sigh. “Ah, that Picani boy, is it? You were always so fond of him…”

                “I’m…” Remy stopped, swallowed his words, and started again. “It’s not fair. Uncle Logan… he doesn’t pay him enough for food, let alone rent.”

                Alissa looked off into the distance as she muttered, “Where was he living? Lowtown?”

                “He lives in a glorified _matchbox_ ,” Remy grumbled, shifting his weight between his feet as he grimaced out the frosted window. “Along with his poor son… did you know he’s been sick?”

                Alissa held a gloved hand to her lips, but Logan could tell she wasn’t truly alarmed by the news. She was humoring Remy. Probably because he was oddly invested in Emile Picani’s livelihood. Logan frowned; why _did_ Remy care so much? It was almost off-putting to watch him fret over Emile’s living conditions.

                “He can’t afford medicine, can’t afford good food… he can’t even buy logs for the damn fire!”

                “Remy!” Alissa snapped, gripping Remy’s wrist tight as a few of the other guests turned to look at them oddly. After a moment, most of them looked away… each of them whispering scandalously behind gloved hands as Remy stewed angrily. Alissa released his wrist slowly, smoothing his ruffled sleeve. “I understand that you have some sort of… _infatuation_ with Mr. Picani, but… can’t you see this has all gone too far?”

                Logan stiffened; an infatuation? With Emile Picani? When had that happened? _How long_ had it been going on? Had it happened right under Logan’s nose? This was a mystery that, for some reason, left Logan wanting more.

                Remy, however, looked away at that statement. “I don’t think so.”

                Alissa smiled pityingly, her head tilted a bit as she pat Remy’s cheek. “He won’t accept charity, darling. There’s nothing more you can do.”

                Shrugging away from her, Remy backed his way toward the entrance. “I’m not leaving it like this. I can’t.”

                Logan followed him, watching as Alissa raced him to the door. The partygoers were watching them, eyeing the slight discourse that was unfolding before them.

                “Remy!” Alissa shouted, chasing her son to the door as he furiously pulled on his coat. She tried to grab him, hold him by his arm so he couldn’t leave, but he kept jerking out of her grasp. “Remy, please! Just… just stay!” She managed to step in his path, holding out her arms in an awaiting embrace. “Leave the man be… and stay here with us. It’s Christmas.”

                Remy paused, but not to consider her offer. He simply gave her a sharp, hurt look. “Leave him be? Mother… you know me better than that.”

                Before Alissa could say anything, Remy sidestepped her and slipped out of the house. The door closed with a resounding _slam_ , and the guests of the party were left, stunned and quiet in the aftermath. Logan frowned; what _was_ all of this? If it was real… did that mean Remy truly had some sort of infatuation with his clerk? Or… was it a dream? Was this all a manifestation of curiosity and guilt?

                The Spirit of Christmas Present stepped into the entryway, stooping low to clear the archway as Alissa slipped back into the main room. Still towering over Logan, the spirit looked down at him… but he looked… different, somehow. The wreath of holly in his hair seemed to be wilting. His eyes looked more somber than before. And the curling coifs of his hair were longer… flatter… and grayer than they had been before. He seemed to be aging, right in front of Logan… and yet, he seemed at peace with that fact.

                “Well?” He asked with a warm smile; still inviting, still jubilant. Logan couldn’t think of what to say. What _could_ he say after seeing all of that? The spirit adjusted his green robes and smoothed the red sash over his breast tiredly. “You’ll miss this _lively_ gettogether if you continue on your current path.”

                Logan scoffed. “And why should that bother me?” He waved flippantly to the sitting room where Alissa was being comforted by her husband. “My brother-in-law wants _nothing_ to do with me. My nephew hates me. And my sister –” Logan paused, took a breath, and tried again. “And my sister…”

                The spirit cocked his head to the side, almost weary as he smiled down at Logan. “You still don’t see it…”

                Logan’s temper flared, and his eyes snapped up to glare at the spirit. “See _what?_ The fact that half my life has been wasted for _nothing_? That my sister cannot stand to speak of me?”

                Lifting a calm hand, the spirit waved to the door with a grand sweep of his arm. “This way, my friend. If you insist on staying your course… you should what the rest of the evening has in store.”

                Before Logan could object, the spirit draped his large cloak around him once more, encasing him in warmth… and darkness. Logan stumbled away, of course, finding himself tripping backwards over a small box. He fell back, slamming his head against a wall with a solid _crack_ that rung through the air.

                Logan winced, holding his head as he growled, “You damned son of a –”

                “Thomas?” Emile Picani’s voice whispered through the cold air. Logan’s eyes snapped open, glancing around the room. It was a small apartment. It was in clear disrepair… the fireplace was dim and cold. Wind rattled the frosted windowpanes. A bed was tucked into the corner of a room, and in it… a little boy shivered under a thin blanket as Emile took off his jacket and placed it on top of him. “Here… better? Is that any warmer?”

                The boy didn’t respond beyond the chattering of his teeth. Pushing himself up from the floor, Logan glanced at the Spirit of Christmas Present. He was watching Emile carefully, a strangely stern expression on his face. Gone was the man of merriment… this was no time for laughter.

                Looking back to Emile, Logan murmured, “What is this?”

                “This is Christmas, Mr. Mend,” the spirit answered gently, his head bowed as he watched Emile softly pass a hand through Thomas’ hair. He was murmuring himself… possibly a lullaby. Thomas, however, didn’t seem to react to the sound. He simply shivered beneath the thin covers. The spirit let out a long, tired sigh. “This… will be little Thomas’ final Christmas.”

                Logan’s stomach clenched; his last Christmas? Surely, that… that couldn’t be all _Logan’s_ fault. No… Emile must’ve just been terrible at managing his money. That had to be it.

                Next to Logan, the spirit scoffed. “Going to feign innocence, Mr. Mend?” Logan didn’t reply, and the spirit sniffed haughtily. “Self-deception doesn’t bode well for you.”

                Giving the spirit a sidelong glare, Logan stepped a little closer to the corner where Thomas was laid. The boy seemed frail… too thin to be healthy. When he coughed, it shook his entire body. Emile would wince in sympathy, apologizing for the pain that Thomas was experiencing… but even then, there was nothing else he could do. Thomas’ lips were turning blue… he must have been freezing. Logan squirmed at the sight… he’d never even _known_ about Thomas before that night, and now he felt responsible for his young life.

                “Can…” he turned to the Spirit of Christmas Present, hopeful and frightened all at once. “Can this be changed? Could he be saved?”

                “Maybe,” the spirit replied. “Or maybe not. It depends on what you do, my friend.”

                A knock at Emile’s door cut off Logan’s next question, and he turned to see Emile glance at the door uneasily. There was a long pause, and Logan made a face. Why wouldn’t Emile answer the door? The knocking continued, getting more agitated as the time passed.

                “Papa,” Thomas croaked, his voice wrung-out and exhausted. “Papa, why…”

                “Shh!” Emile hissed, holding a hand over Thomas’ mouth as he watched the door.

                After a few minutes of waiting in uncomfortable silence, the knocking stopped. The person behind the door slipped something under the edge of the door and into the room. Then… slowly, reluctantly, the sounds of footsteps retreated from the apartment. Emile’s body relaxed, and he stood up to retrieve the letter.

                Logan beat him to it, managing to read the words _Final Notice: Eviction_ written across the top of the page before Emile plucked it from the floor. He frowned at the writing, rubbing his temple anxiously as he thought… before he threw the letter onto the table. Logan’s eyes went wide at the sight; there was an enormous pile of letters, each messy and warning of past due loans and creditors ready to come knocking. Emile turned his back on the letters, falling back to his knees next to Thomas’ bed.

                Logan watched this with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach… pity? Guilt? It was a strange combination of the two, burning in his lungs as he watched Emile hold Thomas’ hand and pray. It was all he could do… and was it truly because of Logan’s greed? Because he didn’t see the need to pay Emile any more than he already did? What purpose had _that_ served? It had only gone to make Logan a true villain… he was the reason this little boy would die. He was the reason Emile would lose his home, trying to purchase medicine for a boy that would freeze to death before he could heal.

                “They’re dying,” the spirit said knowingly. Logan turned to give the spirit a baffled look, but the spirit wasn’t looking at him. He was watching Emile and Thomas, certain and somber as he said, “Both of them. Thomas won’t last the night in this cold snap… Emile with follow soon after.”

                “I…” Logan managed to sputter before another bout of rapping at the door started.

                Emile lifted his head, turning to the door with a terrified expression, only to be startled when a voice on the other side of the door shouted, “Picani! Open the door, you beautiful fool!”

                Logan blinked. It was _Remy_. Standing at Emile Picani’s door in the middle of the night, shouting for him. What would the neighbors say? Scrambling from his place at Thomas’ bedside, Emile ran to the door, turning the latch and opening the door just a fraction.

                “Mr. Traum,” Emile hissed, “My son is trying to _sleep_ , and you are being very –”

                Emile was abruptly cutoff as Remy leaned in and kissed him soundly. Logan was startled by the interaction. They… they were both men. Men… kissing each other. Did Alissa know that Remy felt this way about men? Did she approve of it? How did Remy come to such a realization in the first place?

                Logan’s mind was spinning as Emile hummed and leaned into the kiss, only to snap out of his own daze and shove Remy back into the street. Quick to step outside, Emile shut the door behind himself, blocking Thomas from their conversation. Logan blinked, and he was on the other side of the door, watching Remy and Emile stare at each other in the cold, winter night.

                They watched each other, eyes hungry, mouths open, breaths puffing and clouding in the chilly air. But neither moved. Emile pressed himself to the door, holding onto the doorknob as if it was the only thing holding him to the apartment. And Remy… Remy’s hands clenched and unclenched as he gave Emile a painfully long onceover, almost like he was trying to undo the man piece by piece.

                “Mr. Traum,” Emile finally breathed, his voice a little shaky before he cleared his throat. “You… that was…”

                “Good?” Remy asked, a wicked smile on his face as he took a step forward. “There’s more in store for you, my fine man…”

                Emile held out a hand to stop him, pressing back against the door as hard as he could as his eyes went wide. “No! No… that was… stupid. _Incredibly_ stupid. What if… what if Thomas had seen that?”

                “Thomas _knows_ me,” Remy laughed lightly. Logan blinked in surprise; how well were Remy and Emile acquainted? Remy shrugged lazily as he wobbled slightly where he stood. “ _And_ he knows that love is love. Let him see.”

                Emile wasn’t convinced. “What if the _neighbors_ had seen?”

                Remy snorted derisively at that. “Neighbors will always be nosy.”

                Emile sighed and scrubbed a hand over his flushed face. “Maybe so… but that doesn’t mean we can just… go around performing lewd acts willy-nilly.”

                There was a pause, and Remy gave Emile a long, considering look. “Lewd acts? If you consider a kiss to be lewd, Mr. Picani, I’d _love_ to hear your opinions on sex.”

                Emile’s face turned a rather concerning shade of red as he sputtered, “Sodomy…sodomy is illegal.”

                Remy considered this for a moment, tapping his chin with a finger before he grinned and said, “Only if you get _caught_.”

                Huffing unhappily, Emile shook his head. “Be serious, Mr. Traum. Our relations aside, my son is _very_ sick. I should be inside with him –”

                “Aha! That’s the reason I’m here, you sorry sod!” Letting out a triumphant laugh, Remy lurched forward, nearly slamming Emile against the door as he pushed a small, leather pouch into his hands. Once there, the pressed another sloppy kiss to Emile’s startled face, only leaning back to breathe, “Merry Christmas, you beautiful man,” heavily enough that his breath clouded in the cold air.

                Emile’s face screwed up as he pushed Remy back a few paces. “You’re drunk,” he assessed, giving Remy a dark, irritated look. “I… I don’t like it when you’re drunk. You _know_ I don’t like it when you’re drunk.”

                Logan quirked an eyebrow; they must have spent a lot of time together if Emile had seen Remy drunk. Remy, by principal, didn’t often drink. Something must have tipped him over the line of reason. Had it been his conversation with his mother? Had he been _that_ angry with Logan that he would find comfort in the bottom of a bottle?

                Remy, however, shrugged and stumbled to the side a bit before grumbling, “Not drunk… just… tipsy.” He paused, waving his hand to and fro vaguely. “Wobbly. Floating. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

                “I don’t want you drunk around Thomas,” Emile said with a grimace as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “His mother drank enough for the two of us… I don’t want Thomas falling down that rabbit hole.”

                Remy snorted. “Stupid bitch did you wrong… you deserve better. The two of you do, I mean.”

                “That’s… not the most eloquent way to put it, but… thank you, I suppose.” Emile glanced away, only to frown deeper when he looked at the pouch in his hands. Logan leaned over to see the contents inside. Money. Filled with sovereigns that would fetch a fine meal at any shop, it was worth at least six months of Emile’s wages. Emile pulled the drawstring on the bag and held it out to Remy. “I can’t take this, Mr. Traum. We’ve talked about this.”

                Heaving a melodramatic sigh, Remy pushed a hand through his hair. “It’s… _ugh_ … Picani, it’s not a loan! I’m not going to make you pay it back!”

                “My mother didn’t raise a beggar,” Emile said as he stepped towards Remy with the pouch dangling between them. “I can’t… I _can’t_ take this money by principal. Though I appreciate the sentiment.”

                For a moment, Remy looked at the bag. He didn’t look angry… no, he looked startled more than anything else. And more sober than he had this entire conversation. He looked up at Emile, their eyes catching, and Logan saw the moment that fear flickered through Remy’s eyes.

                “You won’t take it,” Remy said, truly baffled. Emile looked away. Silence settled between them. Remy stomped his foot, a childish display of displeasure, and he shouted, “Take the money, PIcani!”

                “No!” Emile shouted, marching forward to press the money bag against Remy’s chest. He looked frantic, as if he was desperate to get away the money. Almost like he was afraid to keep it. His voice cracked as he looked at Remy through his thin, wire-framed glasses. “I’ll never be able to pay it back! I’ll have this debt hanging over me for the rest of my days!”

                Remy fought – as much as a drunk man _can_ – to shove the money into Emile’s hands. “I _said_ it wasn’t a loan, dammit! Just _take_ it! You _need_ it!”

                “I don’t!” Emile shouted, their struggle looking a more ridiculous by the second. The neighbors would hear, no doubt. How many were listening? How many knew what was going on? Logan could only guess. “I don’t need it!”

                “Filthy liar!” Remy spit. “You need it! For your house! For your _son_!”

                “No, I don’t!”

                “Fucking…” Remy broke their scuffle with an uncoordinated push. When Emile stumbled back, Remy rushed forward and grabbed his collar, marching him back to the wall of his house. There, Remy pressed him against the woodwork and forced the money into Emile’s hand. “ _Take_. The _money_.”

                Emile looked oddly stoic where he was pressed against the house. It was a strange dynamic. The taller man pressed against the wall by the shorter man… their eyes locked and gazes burning with emotion. Logan’s breath was caught; all this drama… all this arguing… _just_ because Logan didn’t pay his clerk a fair wage.

                “I… can’t,” Emile breathed, his breath misting in the air between his face and Remy’s. “This money… It would be…”

                Remy snarled irritably. “I swear… if you say it’s ‘inappropriate’ one more time, I’ll –”

                “No, no…” Emile shook his head, relaxing a bit when Remy’s hold on his collar loosened. “It’s just… this is… _so much_ money…”

                “A small sum to my family,” Remy shrugged, pushing the purse to Emile’s chest. “And you need it… I don’t. Take it.”

                For a moment, Emile simply sighed, looking down at the money in abject defeat. Then, with a teary frown, he took Remy’s wrist and placed the coin pouch back into his hand. “I don’t want to feel like I’ve been bought, Mr. Traum.”

                Remy’s blinked spastically. “Bought? That’s…” he paused, his expression turning hurt as he stepped back. “You… you think I need to _pay_ you to love me?”

                Emile opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it. He looked away. Remy’s breath hitched, and he took a few more steps back.

                “Do… do I have to?” He asked softly, so painfully afraid. Logan felt his chest ache at the sight of Remy’s trembling hands, normally so confident… he was a child in love. A boy with his heart bared and bleeding. And Emile could only duck his head in shame. Remy repeated, “Do I have to pay you to love me?”

                “I…” Emile started, stopped, and refreshed. “It’s not that I _don’t_ love you, Mr. Traum, I –”

                “Remy,” he interrupted sharply, giving Emile a reason to look at him. “Just… call me Remy.”

                Emile looked away again. “It’s… not that I _don’t,_ it’s just…”

                “Then why not take the money?” Remy asked, desperate and pressing as he took a hesitant, wobbly step toward the clerk. Emile didn’t look up from the snow-dusted streets. “Why not just… why do you feel like you’re being bought if –”

                “I’m not a _whore_ , Remy,” Emile grumbled angrily, his eyes flashing dangerously in the street lamps as he glared at the ground. “I am not a man at your disposal. I am not a trinket for your bed. I am not a pretty thing you can throw money at and be contented.”

                Remy’s face drained of color. He looked like me might be sick. Logan’s own stomach twisted uncomfortably. He understood what Emile was saying… he didn’t want to be bought and sold. He didn’t want to be caged in and restrained with money. But Remy didn’t see it. Remy was just a fool in love. He didn’t want to use Emile… did he? No… he wouldn’t. He _couldn’t_.

                Could he?

                Logan hardly knew anything about his nephew, let alone his love life. All because of his years working in his office… all those wasted years, all that hoarded money… it had all lead to this: the heartbreak of a nephew who was in no way responsible.

                “I never said you…” Remy started to say, only to stop and swallow his words. “Emile, I’m not trying to… _buy_ you. I just want to help.”

                Emile didn’t look up. Silence stretched between them. Logan’s stomach clenched unhappily. Seconds, minutes, hours… the time seemed to go on forever. The clock only resumed ticking when Emile lifted his head, his eyes frosty and far away.

                “Please… go home, Mr. Traum,” he said softly, a watery wobble in his voice. “My son is sick. I need to be with him right now.”

                Remy stumbled forward, the pouch coin slipping from his fingers as he sputtered, “I… want to help you. At this rate… he’s… he’s not going to make it. Let me help. Let me –”

                “Go home, Remy.” Emile opened his door and walked back into his house.

                Remy’s hand caught the door before it shut, desperate and begging as he said, “Emile! Please! Don’t just… I love you. _I love you,_ Emile! Let me help!”

                After a moment, Emile pushed Remy’s hand from the door and shut it tight. Logan heard the lock _click._ Remy stood against the door, his hands braced against the wood as he breathed, large, white puffs of breath. Disbelieving and hurt as he leaned against the side of Emile’s apartment.

                “It’s sad, isn’t it?” The Spirit of Christmas Present said gently. He seemed oddly detached from the situation, looking grayer then ever as he stood over Logan. He seemed… paler. More haggard. Sleepy, in some sense. He watched the way Remy crumbled against the door, folding in on himself as he began to cry. The spirit nodded soberly, pulling his green robe around himself a bit closer. “And the evening comes to a close. Quite the ending to Christmas day, wouldn’t you say?”

                Logan swallowed thickly. “Yes… I suppose.”

                The spirit put an arm around Logan, and this time, Logan didn’t flinch away. He closed his eyes, accepting the warm side embrace with a heavy heart. All of this trouble from two decades’ worth of bad decisions… if these spirits were trying to make Logan feel like the scum of the earth, it was definitely working.

                When Logan opened his eyes, he was back in his bedroom. The oil lamp was on the dressing table, flickering subtly as Logan shuffled toward the edge of the bed. The spirit stayed near the doorway, his towering frame looming over Logan silently as Logan settle down on the blankets. Turning to see the spirit, Logan admired the silver of his hair. The tired wrinkles under his eyes. The wilting holly caught in his hair. He looked… finished. Tired and ready for the end to embrace him.

                Noticing the stare, the spirit smiled. “Ready for the night to be over, Mr. Mend?”

                “I’m ready for… _everything_ to be over,” Logan sighed as he pulled the blankets up to his chest. The spirit chuckled lowly, a rumbling sound that made Logan sigh as he relaxed against the sheets. He closed his eyes, taking off his glasses and setting them aside as he muttered, “It’s my fault isn’t it?”

                He heard the spirit take slow steps around the room, reaching the far-right side of the room with the soft sigh of his cloak dragging along the carpet. “What’s your fault?”

                “Everything,” Logan sighed as he opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling blurrily. “I ruined my family… abandoned my sister…”

                “That you did,” the spirit said, making no move to defend Logan. It stung a little bit, but Logan didn’t mind the pain. It was warranted after all. He deserved it.

                Logan sighed and threw an arm over his eyes. “I know nothing of my brother-in-law… my nephew is hopelessly in love with a man… a man who has pushed him away…”

                “Emile _will_ push him away… come Christmas Day,” the spirit murmured, almost sounding far away as he stood, calm and tall as he let out a long, tired sigh. “The future is fast upon you, Logan Mend. Beware; a death knell comes.”

                “For me?” Logan asked, not moving his arm. “Or for someone else?”

                The spirit said nothing.

                The room was quiet. The grandfather _tick-tock-ticked_ the seconds away. Was it still nighttime? Or had morning arrived? It was impossible to know if Logan kept his arm over his eyes.

                Maybe that was preferable to reality. Maybe… just maybe… it was better than living the life he’d made. He’d created a shallow, lonely life for himself… would self-deception be better than dealing with the mess that he’d made? The broken hearts he’d forged… they cut into him like glass shards across his skin. The deaths he’d fostered… would they bring him to an early grave? Logan could only hope so.

                Slowly, sadly, Logan lowered his arm from his eyes, staring up blindly at the gray ceiling that awaited him. The room had gone quiet; not even the clock dared to tick. Logan sighed and took his glasses from the dressing table, pushing them up onto his nose as he sat up. His blood ran cold. His muscles froze. He stared in abject horror.

                There, at the end of his bed, stood the third and final spirit.

                Shrouded in shadow and cloaked in black, the hooded spirit stood silently in the room. Logan could see no eyes. No mouth. No nose. There was nothing but a shadow waiting beneath that coal-black hood, an endless void that stretched into eternity. It was watching. Waiting. Taking slow, rasping breaths and letting out long, sorry sighs. Logan swallowed thickly, watching the spirit carefully as he pushed back the blankets.

                “You… you’re the final spirit, aren’t you?” He asked, voice trembling as he kneaded the blankets frightfully. The spirit didn’t reply. Logan tried again. “You must be the… the Spirit of Christmas Future.”

                Finally, the spirit moved, tipping its head forward just a bit. A nod. Logan finally earned an answer. Taking a deep, shaking breath, Logan swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He kept a liberal distance between himself and this final spirit… it looked like death incarnate, come to take him away. He never knew death would be silent. He expected… more.

                Adjusting his dressing gown, Logan kept a careful eye on the spirit as he said, “Are you going to show me something, Spirit? Or will we remain here?”

                For a moment, the spirit simply watched him, the empty blackness under the hood of his cloak reaching endlessly into madness. Logan nearly felt himself fall into that insanity, staring into the black until he felt sick to his stomach… but then, the spirit moved.

                Lifting a thin, boney hand – skin pulled too tight over the bones, pale and gaunt – the spirit pointed to the window. Logan looked, seeing the darkness of night staring back at him. With a single breath, Logan was transported to a strange place. Skeletal trees that reached down for him, cold snow that blew into his eyes… and a house, high on a hill.

                He stood on the road, staring up at the estate with confusion. “Spirit,” he said, looking to the shrouded figure. “What is this place? Why are we here?”

                The spirit didn’t speak. It simply turned to the people standing behind the fence. It was a group of children, peering through the cast-iron bars in hopes of seeing _something_ beyond the front gate. A few adults stood behind them, whispering to each other behind delicate, gloved hands. Logan listened to the rumors… the prayers… and the suspicions.

                “I hear he was _cursed_ ,” one of the children said, their tone excited and frightened all at once. Their friends turned to look at them, eyes wide and intrigued as the child went on. “Papa said he made a deal with the _devil_. Traded his soul for riches.”

                “Is that why he was so mean?” A little girl asked where she was hiding behind her sister. She stole a glance at the estate, gasping in horror as she pointed to the doors. “Look! There he is!”

                When the other children shouted and cried in horror, Logan looked to the doorway. There, he saw a doctor step out of the house, put on his hat, and duck his head against the chill as he shuffled down the steps. Soon after, two men carried a stretcher out of the house… a body laid on top. A sheet had been draped over the body, a poor attempt to hide the persons’ identity.

                The crowd already knew who this man was.

                “’Bout bloody time,” one of the men in the crowd said loudly. Logan turned to see many people nodding in agreement. The man pushed his hands into his pockets, clicking his tongue before saying, “I never would’ve been able to pay off my debt to him.”

                Another man laughed. “Could anyone? The man was a crook.”

                Logan frowned as the rest of the crowd let out a relieved burst of laughter. This man was dead… and they were relieved? What was this? What lesson was he supposed to learn from this spirit? Turning to the spirit, Logan tried to catch a glimpse of the face behind the shadows.

                “Spirit, please… I don’t understand.” He grabbed at the spirits’ sleeve, tugging gently until the spirit turned to him with that inky black void of a face. Logan shivered as the people began to disperse… the children watched the body get loaded into an ambulance. They cheered when it drove away. Logan looked to the spirit once more. “Why is this happening? Who was the man that died?”

                The spirit did not answer. It simply turned away, walking down the snow-swept streets with Logan in tow. He watched the crowds… a man dragging a Christmas tree through the snow. Children playing with a dog in the alley. A baker closing up shop. Presents wrapped in red and green and gold… it was Christmas day. But why? _When_ was it? What was he supposed to see?

                Quietly, the spirit lead him to a small office. It walked through the doors, immaterial… and Logan followed, stepping into the office of a broker with discomforted suspicion.

                “… this is from the old man on the hill?” The broker asked, inspecting an old pocket watch. A man leaned against the counter, rubbing his hands together and blowing hot air on them as he nodded fervently.

                “Got it straight from his hands before the Doc arrived.”

                Logan blinked; this man had _stolen_ from the dead man on the hill. Taken the watch from his hands… and the broker simply nodded? He looked _impressed_ by this thief. Logan’s grimaced at the sight. Stealing from a dead mans’ pocket… how low could this man be?

                The seller let out a long, tired sigh. “That bastard took everything I had… I just needed the money for my little Annabelle. Poor thing… Consumption took her mother, and now…”

                The broker gave the man a sorry look. “I can give you ten… but no more.”

                Baffled the seller leaned forward and tapped the pocket watch. “That’s an old heirloom, Rich! Worth at least fifteen, don’t you think?”

                “Ten,” the broker said, stiff and tired as he looked away. “I _might_ be able to give you eleven, but… I don’t know how I’d be able to sell it again.” He gave the watch a scorned look. “Everyone thinks that bastard was an agent of the devil… didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. I doubt anyone would want it… unless they wanted to burn it.”

                While the seller continued to beg for at least fifteen silvers, Logan looked to the spirit. It was silent, watching the interaction with that same, distant detachment. Logan frowned, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he struggled to figure out what he was supposed to be learning.

                A man who had money. A man who lived alone. A man feared by the townsfolk. A man… who sounded a lot like Logan Mend.

                Swallowing thickly, Logan tugged on the sash of his dressing gown. “Who is it?” He asked, his voice trembling with fear. The spirit turned its black, endless face to stare down Logan. Logan could only shiver at the sight of that void. Even so, he steeled his nerves and tried again. “Who is the man that died?”

                For a moment, the spirit just looked at him. Or… at least it seemed like it was looking at him. The black emptiness that filled the hood watched him. Within an instant, Logan saw the world around them shift. The wind screamed in his ears. Snow blinded him. He stumbled, finding his footing on uneven soil. When he finally lifted his eyes, he saw the world had changed around him.

                Now, he stood in a graveyard.

                Surrounded by rows and rows of headstones and nameless concrete rectangles pressed into the dirt, Logan caught his breath. Fog hung low to the ground, a frozen mist that painted the air all the way up to Logan’s knees. The sky was dark and gray; clouds heavy with snow and ready to bury the cemetery.

                Shivering in the cold, Christmas air, Logan looked around at the gravestones. Most of the names scattered around him were long dead and unknown to him. Taking a step back, Logan glanced around the old, dusty cemetery. There were hundreds… no, _thousands_ of people in that graveyard. Which one was the man on the hill?

                “Where is the –” Logan’s words stopped in his tracks when a shadow appeared in the mist.

                After a moment, the shadow turned into the form of a person. A woman in heavy mourning gowns, black and veiled as she walked through the rows and rows of headstones. Slow, deliberate and careful, she walked through the cemetery. Past Logan. Past the Spirit of Christmas Future. And on through the rows of stones.

                After a moment, she stopped, turned, and looked down at the grave at her feet. It was small. Just a simple, ungarnished rectangle. A name carved in simple granite along with the date of their death. Logan couldn’t get close enough to see the name. He was distracted by the woman when she lifted her veil.

                It was Alissa. She was… _old._ Her hair had gone gray. There were wrinkles around her eyes and lips… tired and ages through joy and sorrow. There was a beautiful in seeing this… his baby sister a grown, aging woman? It was comforting to know she’d grow old gracefully. But it was disheartening to know that she was there, at the cemetery.

                And Logan knew why.

                When Alissa leaned over, placing a flower on the headstone, Logan read the name carved into the stone. He read… his _own_ name carved into the stone.

                _Logan T. Mend_

_1793-1852_

                His stomach dropped. His chest constricted. Alissa touched the headstone, almost reverent in her regard… before she turned away, pulled the black mourning veil over her face, and walked away. Her footprints were left in the stone… the only footprints in the cemetery. Logan felt dizzy; the town had rejoiced his passing. Children _screamed_ at the mention of his name. His pocket watch, a gift from his grandfather, was being sold for a twelfth of its value. Remy was heartbroken. Emile and his son were _dead_ … all because of the choices Logan made.

                Heart pounding, chest aching, Logan turned to the cold, unforgiving spirit. “Please,” he said, the begging clear in his voice as he reached out for the spirit. “Please don’t let this be true.” It hardly acknowledged him as it began to walk away, leaving him behind. Logan gave chase, but found himself falling behind, no matter how hard he ran. “Please!” He cried, “Let me go back! Let this future be nothing but a nightmare! Let me _change_ it!”

Without warning, Logan’s feet stepped through open air, and he found himself falling. He screamed, seeing nothing but darkness beneath him as he fell down, down, down… he could see the spirits’ face. The hollow cheeks. The lips dry and cracked. Eyes with smudges of black beneath the lids… eyes darker than the soul of hell.

                Logan tried to scream, but there was no sound. He tried to stop himself from falling, but the pit went on forever. He was falling, falling… was he going to die when he landed? Would this future be cemented like this? Would his legacy forever be one of cruelty and animosity?

                Hot, desperate tears streamed down Logan’s face as he fell, streaking back into his hair as he awaited the moment of impact. The inevitable _crack_ before the void. The pain before the quiet.

                But it never came.

                With one breath, Logan came back to himself. His eyes blinked open, and he saw the ceiling of his bedroom, illuminated by the thin, careful light of morning. He was gasping for breath, holding a hand to his chest to make sure that he was still alive. Sitting up, Logan listened to the sound of his rasping breaths and thudding heartbeat. Real. Warm. Afraid… but still alive. That relief was short-lived… how long had he been asleep? Had he fallen into another future? Or was there another spirit coming to torment him?

                Kicking the sheets off, Logan grabbed his glasses and went to his bedroom window. There were children sledding down the hill of his estate, just like he knew they would be. They’d ignored the signs that said ‘Private Property’ but, for the first time, Logan didn’t care. He struggled with the locks on the window for a moment, wrenching it open so he could stick his head outside into the cold, winter air.

                “You! Children!” He shouted, seeing the way the children, startled by the sound of his voice, pivoted to stare at him in abject horror. They’d been caught. But Logan didn’t plan to punish them. No, no… he had things to do. Lives to change. Lives to _save_. “What day is it?”

                The children – simple, simple children – looked at each other, bewildered. One of them was brave enough to push his hat up on his head and yell back, “What?”

                Logan slapped his hand on the windowpane, accentuating urgency when he said, “The _day_! What _day_ is it, boy?”

                Another pause, and the boy glanced at his friends before replying, “It’s Wednesday! Christmas Day, sir!”

                Letting out a cloudy, relieved breath, Logan smiled. There was still time. He could still fix things. “Good,” he breathed, nodding to himself as he leaned against the window heavily. “Good… Merry Christmas, children!”

                He didn’t wait to hear their surprised, sputtered answers. He raced to his wardrobe to get dressed. With enough luck… he might be able to catch Emile and Remy before it was too late. Taking up his checkbook and his hat, Logan turned on his heel, and headed out the door with a spring in his step.

+++++

                He saw Emile Picani approaching the office from over a block away. With those worn and torn gloves, he was fumbling with the keys. Too cold to be dexterous. Too tired to care. Logan started to run down the streets, startling the townspeople as he began to shout: “Mr. Picani! Hold a moment!”

                Startled, Emile dropped his keys and spun to face Logan. His eyes went wide at the sight of Logan jogging through the crowds, and Logan barely heard him gasp, “Sir, w-what… I… I was just opening the door, Sir! I’m not late, am I?”

                Coming to a stumbling stop, Logan took a moment to catch his breath. “No,” he gasped, shaking his head before he adjusted his hat. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Picani.”

                Emile blinked spastically. “M-merry… merry Christmas, sir.”

                Nodding sternly, Logan dug into his coat pocket as he asked, “How is Thomas?”

                Another startled look. “T-Thomas?”

                “Your son,” Logan pressed as he took out his own keys and unlocked the door of the office. He needed a pen. He stepped inside with Emile hot on his heels, confused and stumbling as Logan rushed to his desk. “How is your son?”

                “My son… he’s… ill, Sir. He’s been ill for some time… in fact, I was hoping you might reconsider your stance on my pay advancement.”

                Logan started to scratch out a note. “No, I wouldn’t. I will, however, increase your pay from your current wage.”

                Emile’s relief flooded the room. “Thank you, Sir.”

                “Also,” Logan said as he wrote another zero and tore out the note. He held out the note to Emile, and when he received an odd look, Logan explained: “Your Christmas bonus.”

                “I-I…” Emile took the note with wide eyes. He looked like he was in shock. “You’ve never given me a Christmas bonus before. I don’t know what to say, I…” he looked down at the note, his eyes going wide at the number of zeros on the paper. “Sir! This is… this is _much_ too much!”

                “Consider it payment for the Christmas bonuses you should have been receiving all these years,” Logan said with a crooked grin. Emile’s eyes were filling with tears… but this wasn’t like the tears he’d shed with Remy. No… Emile was _relieved_. Stepping out from behind his desk, Logan gave Emile a fond clap on the shoulder. “I’d like you to take that money… and call for a doctor.”

                Emile’s lip quivered as he sniffled and said, “I’ll… I’ll do just that, Sir! I… I will _never_ be able to thank you enough, Sir. Please, I…”

                Logan held up a hand to interrupt him. “Don’t. Please. It’s the least I can do… after all these years of your service, I…” Logan hesitated, ducked his chin, and swallowed his pride. “I’m sorry, Emile. For the way I’ve treated you, all this time.”

                Too surprised to smother his tears, Emile blinked, and twin tears rolled down his cold-chapped cheeks. “Sir,” he croaked, barely able to speak through the tremble of his voice. “If there were ever a moment I wished I could bless a man…”

                Logan smiled, feeling real warmth bloom in his chest. “The thought is enough, my good man.”

                Sniffling a bit, Emile let out a shaky laugh. He started to unwind his scarf, keen on sitting down at his desk. “I’d… I’d better get started with the accounts,” he said, almost sitting in his chair before Logan grabbed his arm.

                “Perish the thought, Mr. Picani,” Logan said as he towed Emile to the door and deposited him on the front step. There, he locked the door behind himself and pushed the key back into his pocket. “ _You_ are not going to work today. It’s Christmas day; you should be with your son.”

                Fidgeting with the note in his hands, Emile glanced at the window. “B-but… yesterday, you said…”

                “I know what I said,” Logan snapped, seeing the way Emile flinched away when he used that sharp tone. Taking a calming breath, Logan licked his lips and tried again. “But… my outlook has changed.”

                “ _You’ve_ changed,” Emile said softly, giving his employer a long, considering look. “Did… did something happen, Sir? Are you feeling alright?”

                “Nothing happened,” Logan said, taking a deep refreshing breath before he smiled. “I’ve merely opened my eyes, Mr. Picani. And I feel better. More alive than I have in ages.”

                And it was true. He felt _good_ when he wrote Emile that check. It didn’t magically wipe away all those years of disservice to the poor man… but it was a step in the right direction. An improvement on Logan’s attitude. A mark in the correct column. But there was something else… something Logan was missing. He blinked in realization.

                “You and your son live in Lowtown, don’t you? In a small apartment?” he asked, already knowing the answer in the way Emile averted his eyes and squirmed under the scrutiny.

                “Yes,” Emile muttered, tugging at his gloves tiredly. “We do.”

                “That won’t do,” Logan said as he rubbed his chin. Emile gave him an odd look, and Logan snapped his fingers. “I have _numerous_ empty rooms in my estate. I’d be more than happy to have the two of you for Christmas… or however long you need to stay.”

                Emile went a little pale at that. “S-stay… in your estate? Sir, I couldn’t possibly –”

                “Nonsense!” Logan said as he put an arm around Emile and walked him down the street. “Bring Thomas to my estate and choose whichever room you like. I insist. Have the doctor come there, as well. Thomas would be much better equipped to fight off sickness in a warm bed and a full stomach.”

                “Mr. Mend,” Emile said, stopping their little trek through the streets. Logan stopped to look at him, seeing the way Emile was strangling the paper check in his hands anxiously. “I… this is all… very, _very_ generous of you, but… why?”

                Logan touched a hand to his glasses. “Why?”

                “Why are you doing all this? So suddenly? It’s a bolt out of the blue, Sir,” Emile shook his head, waving the check in the air as evidence. “The money, the offer, t-the… the concern for my son, it’s all…”

                Logan ducked his head, looking down at the snowy streets as he murmured, “Am I not allowed to be concerned for the boy?”

                “No! No, that’s not what I’m saying,” sputtered Emile. He scrubbed a hand over his face, still flustered, before he managed to sigh, “I’m just… in shock, I suppose. This doesn’t seem like you. I’m half-afraid I might wake up this will all have been a wonderful dream.”

                Letting out a long, considering breath, Logan nodded. “I can understand that fear. Dreams can be… startling. And an awakening, all in one.”

                Emile made a face at that. He didn’t understand. That was fine. He didn’t have to. Logan smiled and gave Emile another pat on the shoulder. “Relax, Mr. Picani. This is very much real. I consider myself a new man.”

                “You certainly _seem_ like a new man,” Emile laughed as he glanced down at the check in his hand. His eyes flashed back up to Logan’s, meeting him with a flicker of concern. “But… are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

                “If you were an imposition, I wouldn’t have offered,” said Logan stiffly. “Now… go and bring Thomas to the estate. And send for that doctor. I’ll have some fresh food delivered to the house.”

                After a beat, Emile sputtered back into action, already heading south to Lowtown as Logan sauntered toward the bakery on 2nd street. There was a tightness in Logan’s chest… a knot that wouldn’t lessen. A fear that he hadn’t done enough… a fear that Thomas wouldn’t get better. What would it do to Emile? It would destroy him, certainly… Logan could only pray that the doctor could help.

                “Sir!” Emile’s voice cut through the crowds, and Logan stopped to see Emile waving at him from the bottom of the hill. Even from far away, Logan could see the overjoyed smile on his face. “God bless you, Sir! Merry Christmas!”

                The shock on the streets was clear. Everyone _knew_ Logan. They _knew_ he didn’t care for Christmas. Even so, their shock only grew when Logan, in all his stern glory, broke out in another smile and tipped his hat.

                “Merry Christmas, Mr. Picani.”

+++++

                The bell of the bakery chimed twice when Logan opened the door, a simple trill of sound… and yet, it reminded Logan of the chime of his grandfather clock. The spirits, the dreams… or were they visions? He didn’t dare say. Instead, he walked up to the small desk at the head of the shop and glanced around for the baker.

                “Just a minute!” A voice called from the back. A man, it would seem. But there was something _off_ about his voice… something almost… _childish_ in the tone. Like he was on the brink of laughter. Logan understood why when the man stepped out of the kitchen.

                He was covered, head to toe, in flour. Logan’s jaw dropped, and he stared in amazement at the mess before him. There were two perfectly clean circles around the mans’ eyes… his glasses had sheltered them from the flour. A thick layer of flour sat upon his head like a ramshackle hat. And, through that cloak of white dust, the man was laughing.

                “Th-that sack of flour,” he giggled as he swiped at his cheeks to reveal a blush of freckles on his cheeks. “D-dropped from the… ha! It dropped from the top shelf!”

                Logan glanced around awkwardly. What was he supposed to do in this situation? Clearing his throat, Logan arched an eyebrow as he man started to pat his arms and legs, making clouds of flour in the air. “Are… are you alright?”

                “Fine! Just fine… more than fine.” The baker stopped, put on his glasses, and gave Logan a warm smile. “It made the biggest foof, though! Like a big dollop of heavens’ clouds!”

                Logan blinked. He was a child. Or, at least, he _acted_ like a child. Even so… there was something about his blue eyes. The light in them reminded Logan of something he couldn’t quite name. Waiting patiently, Logan watched while the baker dusted himself off and adjusted his apron.

                “Now…” he started to say as he clapped his hands free of flour. “What can I do for you?”

                “I… need a delivery to my house on the hill,” Logan said, giving the baker the address. The baker wrote this down, diligent in his business despite the flour that fluttered down onto the paper. “I need… a dozen rolls, two loaves of bread… and…”

                “Pie?” The baker asked with a smile. Logan gave him a baffled look, and the baker smiled wider. “It’s a Christmas staple!”

                “Fine,” Logan acquiesced. “A pie, then. I’m sure Thomas will enjoy it.”

                “I’m sure he will,” the baker laughed lightly. There was still a smudge of flour on his cheek. Without thinking, Logan leaned forward over the counter… and brushed it away with his thumb. The baker froze, watching Logan in confusion.

                Logan wrenched his hand back. What was he _doing_? Touching another man so intimately… was he insane? Just because the bakers’ eyes caught his attention? There was something wrong with him… maybe he’d been thinking about Remy and Emile’s relationship too long. Maybe he was just sick.

                After a moment, the baker laughed again, his eyes scrunching up with a smile as he brushed more flour off his face. Logan watched him, thankful the man wouldn’t accuse him of anything perverse. In fact, to his surprise, the baker got a bit of flour on his finger, leaned forward, and tapped the tip of Logan’s nose. Logan didn’t dare brush it away as the baker leaned back and giggled again.

                He was so… _alive_. And bright. Like a glowing flame. Warm and real… intelligent but childish. Logan blinked. “Pardon me,” he said, catching the baker as he placed Logan’s order into a basket. “Have… have we met before?"

                The baker, still warm, still smiling, cocked his head to the side. “Have we?” He asked as he rounded the store, packing up a dozen rolls as he went.

                “You look… familiar,” said Logan as he followed the baker. “Your face… you seem very similar to someone I’ve met before.”

                The baker paused, thoughtful, before setting another roll into the basket. “Do I?”

                Logan opened his mouth to speak, only to lose his tongue when the baker turned to look at him. Those eyes. Those _eyes_. They saw right through him. Into what was… what could be. Freckles that didn’t stay the same twice. A light that simply shone from deep under his skin.

                “Like someone I met from a dream,” Logan found himself whispering numbly as he baker smiled. “A spirit.”

                With that soft, knowing smile, the baker opened the door and ushered Logan out. Logan stumbled out the door, confused, before turning around to give the baker a strange look. He only received another laugh and a smile.

                “I’ll bring your order this evening,” the baker – the spirit? – said happily. “Merry Christmas… Mr. Mend.”

                Logan stood, awed and curious as he watched the baker retreat back into his shop. Had it been a coincidence, or… no. Logan shook his head with a puff of laughter. The spirits were spirits, and nothing more. Turning on his heel, Logan started for the north side of town.

                Only to run right into the chest of a stranger.

                “Woah there!” The stranger laughed loudly as he caught Logan’s shoulders and held him steady while they both found their footing.

                Logan pushed his glasses back up and found himself looking into a pair of bright brown eyes and glittered with excitement. Logan nearly fell over at the sight of him. He was… in a word, he was _beautiful_. Dressed in a smart, tailored suit, the man had a branch of holly tucked into the pocket of his coat. An odd choice, but not one that Logan minded. He looked warm. Like a foreigner from the south, sun-kissed skin and a smile that glowed with warmth. His brown hair curled over his brow just so, and eyes wrinkled around each smile… Logan could only stare at the man in pure, helpless wonder.

                Amused, the man gave Logan a pat on the shoulder. “Alright, my friend? You look a little tongue-tied.” Logan opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut-off when the man spoke again. “Though it’s no trouble… I have that effect on others. A larger-than-life presence, my mother called it.”

                “L-larger than…” Logan sputtered, only to have the man look over his head and smile.

                “Virgil!” He called, waving the other man over.

                Logan glanced over his shoulder, seeing a man draped in a black cloak trudging toward them. With a black hat pulled low over his eyes, Logan could only see the pale skin of the mans’ mouth, set in a thin, serious line. There was a familiarity about him, as well… one that sent a chill down Logan’s spine.

                “Virgil, my old friend,” the first man said warmly. “How are you?”

                After a moment, Virgil lifted his head and gave the stranger a withering stare. Logan’s heart almost stopped at the sight; his eyes were blacker than coals. Deeper than night. More endless than the void. That pale skin… those eyes… Logan knew him. Logan knew him _too well_.

                The first man, however, simply laughed at Logan’s perturbed expression. “Oh, don’t mind him… he’s always like this. Ah!” the stranger turned to Logan and extended his hand. “Roman Prince, by the way. I apologize for not introducing myself.”

                Logan took the offered hand, shaking it once as Roman smiled down at him. “Logan,” he managed to say after a moment. “Logan Mend.”

                “Well, Mr. Mend,” said Roman with a tip of his hat. “I bid you good evening and a Merry Christmas!” With that, Roman swept up to Virgil, throwing an arm around the thin mans’ shoulders and steering him down the pavement. “Come along, Virgil! We will drink that sorry frown off your face.”

                Watching them go was an odd experience. Like watching the present and future collide. Blatant ignorance followed by regret… Logan blinked. “Wait!” He called, jugging to catch up with the pair as Roman turned to smile at him. “Just a moment, if you would… have… I beg your pardon, but… have we met before? In the past, perhaps?”

                Roman blinked in surprise. “I’d certainly hope not. I’ve never been to this town.”

                Logan frowned; this didn’t make sense. He looked… he looked _just_ like… he looked at Virgil. “And you, Sir? Are you certain we’ve never met?”

                Virgil merely quirked an eyebrow, giving Logan a long onceover. Roman stepped in, giving Virgil a fond pat on the shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive him,” Roman said. “He’s been mute all his life.”

                “Mute,” Logan repeated, his eyes never leaving Virgil. It made sense… even in his dream, Virgil had never… Logan shook his head. “I’m sorry to have stopped you, gentlemen.”

                Roman beamed and tipped his hat once more. “Merry Christmas,” he said again, a twinkle in his eye.

                Virgil gave Logan a curt nod as well. But, as they began to turn away, Logan _swore_ he saw Virgil smile and wink at him. But, before Logan could say anything, Virgil and Roman turned a corner and disappeared from view. Out of sight… but not out of mind.

                Logan let out a long, considering breath… what a day. What a Christmas. And the day wasn’t even half over.

+++++

                Logan stood on the front stoop. His stomach hurt. His palms were sweating in his gloves. He could see people mingling through the frosted windows. He could hear laughter through the door. The sweet smell of food and drink wafted through the air, and yet… Logan couldn’t bring himself to open the door and step inside.

                Was it fear of rejection? Or had he simply forgotten how to behave around his own family? Probably both. It had been so _long_ since he’d seen them and spoken to them… he felt sick at the thought of making an ass of himself. Regardless, he had to go inside. He needed to set things right.

                Or, at the very least, apologize.

                So, mustering all the courage he had, Logan lifted his chin and opened the door. Stepping over the threshold was one thing… now he had to walk through the party… and find Alissa. Several people lingering in the hall stopped mid-conversation, choosing to stare at him in awe. They hadn’t expected him. No one had, really. Not even Logan.

                Taking off his hat, he gave the other guests a polite nod as he stepped into the main sitting room. There, along the far wall, stood Daniel, Alissa’s husband. He was talking to a few other men, eagerly discussing politics. Logan decided to avoid that. Turning to his left… he saw her. Alissa. In all her elite glory, she stood with Remy by the window, listening as her son angrily complained.

                Remy crossed his arms over his chest and glared out the window. “Honestly, I don’t give a _damn_ what Uncle does anymore.”

                Logan chuckled lowly as he approached. “Should I feel insulted, nephew?” Remy’s expression was one of utter shock when he spun on his heel to see Logan. Alissa, however, held Logan’s attention. Her eyes were wide, but there was a smile on her face. Baffled… but happy to see him. Logan fidgeted with the brim of his hat, turning it over in his hands as he gave his sister a slight inclination of his head. “Hello, Lissa… Merry Christmas.”

                The room went quiet. All other guests had stopped to look at Logan Mend and his sister. Everyone in the room knew him… all of them _knew_ he was not a sentimental man… and yet, there he stood. With his heart in his hands and a cautious smile on his face.

                Alissa stepped around Remy, coming to place a hand on Logan’s arm. It was almost like she was trying to verify that he was real. When Logan didn’t crumble beneath her, Alissa met his eyes with a watery smile.

                “Logan,” she breathed, like a reverent whisper. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down for a tight embrace as she whispered in his ear. “Logan… oh, I’ve _missed_ you.”

                Dropping his hat on the floor, Logan held his sister tight. “So have I,” he murmured into her hair as he held her close. “So have I.”

                “Like _hell_ you have,” a voice shot from the other side of the room. Logan lifted his head to see Daniel Traum glaring at him. It was warranted, of course. He didn’t trust Logan. And for good reason… he’d left his sister. But Logan wanted to make things right. Didn’t that mean anything? To Daniel Traum, apparently, it didn’t. “If you’ve missed her so much, where have you been all these years?”

                Logan didn’t have an answer for that. He stooped down to pick up his top hat, holding it close to his chest as Alissa leaned supportively against his arm. “I’ve seen the err of my ways.”

                Daniel snorted and took a drink of brandy. “Of _course_ you have.”

                “I’ve treated my family poorly, all these years… working toward a goal I could no longer identify.” Logan held his ground, feeling the heavy, hopeful stare of Remy on his face as he went on. “But that is in the past. I’m moving forward, hoping...” he looked to Alissa and smiled as he took her hand. “I’m hoping… you can give me a second chance, sister.”

                Blinking a few times, Alissa laughed breathlessly. “ _Look_ at you…” she whispered as she squeezed his hand. “You’ve _changed_.”

                “For the better, I see,” Remy said with a sad smile. He was probably still worried about Emile… Logan would have to talk to him about that, later.

                “Damn your changes!” Daniel shouted as he cut in again. Guests backed away from him as he stomped toward Logan. They were afraid of him… but not Alissa. She stood tall with her chin raised. Defiant and confident as she stood as Logan’s last line of defense. Daniel spoke over her as he glared, deep and angry, into Logan’s soul. “You can’t just walk in here and claim to have good intentions. You hurt my wife. You broke her heart.” Logan’s gaze turned to the floor, ashamed, as Daniel said, “An apology and a promise won’t wipe away the past, Mend. You _know_ it won’t.”

                “I know,” Logan agreed quietly. “I know it won’t. Even so…” he lifted his eyes to meet his brother-in-law halfway. “Even so, I want to try. I need to begin somewhere. I need… I _want_ to be a part of Alissa’s life. She’s my sister.”

                “She’s my wife,” Daniel answered darkly.

                “And we both want the best for her,” Logan said coolly. “So, logically… we’re both in agreement.”

                Opening his mouth to disagree, Daniel took a breath… only to rethink Logan’s words. Did he see the truth in Logan’s eyes? Did he see the desperate tremble of Logan’s hands? Maybe. But he didn’t comment on it. He simply let out a long, tired sigh as he shook his head.

                “Fine, then,” he muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Do whatever you want… but,” he said, catching Logan’s gaze. “If you hurt her in _any_ way –”

                “I wouldn’t dare,” Logan said stiffly. “Not again.”

                “Aw,” Alissa crooned sarcastically. “Such a good big brother.”

                Logan gave her a halfhearted glare, only smiling when he saw Alissa laugh at his expense. It was fine for her to laugh at him… he liked seeing her smile again. After all those years… leaving the way he had… it was a relief to see her laugh again.

                Daniel smiled, too… and the party went back to normal. It was almost like the dispute hadn’t happened. _Almost._ There were still people throwing glances at Logan. Still guests that would whisper behind their glasses and hands when they thought he wasn’t looking. Idle gossip and nothing more, he was certain… but that didn’t matter.

                Stepping close to Remy, Logan took his nephew’s elbow and pulled him away from the crowds. “Oy. What… Uncle! What are you _doing_?”

                “I need to speak with you,” Logan said sharply. “ _Privately._ ”

                At that, Remy was oddly quiet. He allowed himself to be towed into the far corridor, and then into a room that Logan assumed was the study, closing the door behind them. It looked like Daniel’s study. Probably. Logan couldn’t imagine Remy having so many important documents… he wasn’t responsible enough to fill anything out. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition to talk there.

                Releasing Remy, Logan turned to give his nephew a long, serious look. He’s always assumed Remy to be a child. A rambunctious teenager, and nothing more. But… no… Remy had grown. He was a fine young man. With those golden eyes straight from his biological father, and his mothers’ dark hair, combed back and groomed nicely… he was a young nobleman, ready for the world. Logan felt sorry for missing his childhood.

                “So?” Remy said, fidgeting with the cufflinks on this coat. “What is it? Something you can’t say in front of Mother?”

                Logan smiled and twisted his hat in his hands, looking down at the black, satin lining inside as he spoke. “I know that you and Emile have some sort of… connection.” Remy stiffened, and Logan looked up. The poor boy looked frozen. Horrified by the implications behind that statement. Logan held up a hand in surrender. “Relax, Remy… I have no intention of turning you over to the police. Or your father.”

                There was a notable pause before Remy let out a quiet, “Really?”

                Logan nodded. “Of course. If you’re happy with him… and he with you, I have no qualms with your… relationship. Though… I do request you be careful.”

                “Right,” Remy said, his eyes still wide and disbelieving as he raked a hand through his hair shakily. “R-right. Careful. I can… God _above…_ how long have you known?”

                “Not long,” Logan confessed quietly. “But, I did want to speak to you about him. Emile… and Thomas.” Remy lifted his eyes, giving Logan a careful look. He didn’t quite trust Logan yet… Logan would have to _earn_ that. So be it. Logan raised his chin. “I’ve increased Emile’s wages and given him a generous Christmas bonus. However…”

                Remy’s eyes bugged. “ _You_ gave him a Christmas–”

                “ _However_ ,” Logan said again, “Because it is not enough to ensure Thomas’ recovery, I have offered to let Emile stay in my estate for the time being.”

                Remy blinked spastically. “Emile and Thomas… they’re at the hill house?” He asked, still baffled. “Right now? Staying there? _Really_?”

                “Yes,” Logan nodded sternly, looking down at the carpet for a moment. “I… I know that I’ve treated him poorly. I should have listened to you… and I apologize for waving you away.”

                “You’re apologizing,” Remy breathed. “You’re apologizing… to me. Are you really my uncle?” Remy stepped close to give Logan a long, considering look. “Are you _really_ Uncle Logan?”

                “How rude,” Logan sniffed as he put on his hat and stepped out of the office.

                Remy was hot on his trail, following him as he asked, “Are you sick, perhaps? Dying of an illness? I can’t think of any real reason you’d be so kind to Mr. Picani.”

                “No,” Logan snapped as he buttoned his coat and went back into the main hall. He wanted to say goodnight to his sister before he left… but Remy kept getting underfoot.

                “Perhaps you’ve been brainwashed,” Remy said giddily. “Uncle Logan! Can you hear me? It’s your nephew, Remy!”

                Stopping in his tracks, Logan gave Remy a dark look before swatting him away. “Remy, dear boy, I _will_ step on your foot if you don’t get away from me.”

                Remy went red as he stepped back. “D-dear boy? Oh, Uncle… you _do_ care.”

                Rolling his eyes, Logan took up Alissa’s hands and kissed her cheek. “I’m afraid I have to go, dearest. I have a delivery to receive at my home.”

                Alissa pouted and squeezed Logan’s hands. “Oh… so soon?”

                “I merely wanted to wish you a happy Christmas,” Logan said with a smile. “And begin to mend some broken bridges, if I may.”

                Alissa thought about this, giving Daniel an amused smile as she did. Daniel smiled back, putting an arm around her shoulders as he said, “If you want to mend bridges… come see us more often. I’d like to get to know my brother-in-law.”

                Nodding obligingly, Logan felt his smile widen as he said, “Likewise.” He turned to Alissa once more. “Merry Christmas, darling girl.”

                Alissa stepped forward to kiss Logan’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, brother… come see me again. Soon.”

                “I will,” Logan promised as he pat her back. He took a step back, admiring her for a moment before saying, “You… you look _just_ like Mother did. You have her grace… and poise.”

                Holding a hand to her lips, Alissa waved Logan away. “Go before I start to cry, you wicked man…”

                Dipping his head, Logan turned and made for the door, only to be stopped halfway over the threshold. Remy was holding his arm. Logan quirked an eyebrow.

                “Can I…” Remy started, then stopped. He stepped closer so he could whisper, “Could I come and see them tonight? I... I'd like to see them. If you wouldn't mind.”

                “Of course,” Logan said with a nod as he placed his hat atop his head. “Come anytime.”

                “Thank you,” Remy sighed happily. “For… for everything. I don’t know what happened to you… but I like the changes that it brought.”

                “So do I, nephew,” Logan smiled as he stepped out the door and started his trek home. “So do I.”

+++++

                Logan leaned in the doorway of the downstairs guest bedroom. A doctor had come and gone, listening to Thomas’ lungs, heartbeat, and looking at his throat. Pneumonia, it would seem. They were lucky to have brought Thomas to the estate where he would be warm and comfortable. Emile sat on the edge of the bed, singing Thomas to sleep while the boy melted into the covers. Against the wall, the fireplace smoked with warm fire… it was a sanctuary for Thomas. And for Emile.

                After singing for nearly thirty minutes, Emile stopped, smiled, and kissed Thomas goodnight. He joined Logan in the parlor, where he was given a drink.

                “I can’t begin to thank you enough,” Emile sighed as he took a slow drink of brandy. He winced, but drank anyway, watching the fireplace dance and flicker before them. Logan poured himself a drink, and Emile stayed by the fire. “You know I… I’d almost given up hope. Thomas used to be so… so _alive_ and bright. But… when he got sick…”

                “I can imagine,” Logan said softly as he met Emile by the fireplace. “My parents fell ill when I was very young. It took them fast, thank god, but… it was jarring, nonetheless. Missing them.”

                Emile paused halfway through a sip to cough, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

                “Don’t be,” Logan muttered as he knocked back a drink. “My sister and I lived with our grandparents happily enough… and that’s how I got into business.”

                Emile looked to the fireplace again. “I see.”

                For a moment, they sat in peaceable silence. But Logan knew he had to say something… something before Remy came. There was a fragile balance. It had to be handled delicately… with the right amount of pressure.

                “Emile,” Logan said as he set his glass on the mantle. “I’ve noticed you and my nephew are somewhat close.”

                Emile choked on his drink and he coughed a few times before sputtering, “Oh?”

                Logan hummed thoughtfully as he started to pace the room. Long, slow steps. Not meant to intimidate… just meant to think. He watched the carpet as he walked. “You’ve been married before, have you not?”

                “Married?” Emile echoed in confusion. “Yes, of course. I married when I was fifteen.”

                “I see,” Logan sniffed as he picked up his glass and took a sip. “And does that mean you’ve… divorced?”

                “No,” Emile muttered as he stared into the fireplace. The flamed casted odd shadows. Shadows that melded and bent when Emile said, “Widowed. She died. Drank herself to the grave, the doctor said.”

                Logan winced. “My apologies, I didn’t mean –”

                “It’s fine,” Emile said as he stared at the contents of his crystal glass. “It’s fine.”

                Pausing his pace, Logan step his cup aside once more. “Emile… my nephew cares for you.” Emile looked at him, almost scared, before Logan put a hand on his shoulder. “He wants you to be happy. He cares for you… and Thomas. I’m… I’m just curious as to _your_ intentions.”

                “My intentions…” Emile laughed a bit as he adjusted his glasses. “You make it sound as if we were betrothed, Mr. Mend.”

                Logan chuckled as he pushed his hands into his pockets. “Perhaps that _was_ a bit forward of me.”

                “Perhaps,” Emile repeated softly. They watched the fire. The logs _cracked_ and _popped_. After a long, thoughtful moment, Emile whispered, “I think I love him.”

                Logan gave Emile a sidelong glance, seeing the way his eyes were fixed on the fire. But he wasn’t looking at it. His eyes were far, far away. Staring into something that Logan couldn’t see… with a smile on his face.

                “I never… never really _loved_ my wife… our marriage had been arranged by our parents,” Emile confessed tiredly, tilting his cup to and fro as he spoke. “But… Remy…” he paused, then blushed a bit. “I mean… Mr. Traum… he’s different, somehow. He says things like… he’s just so…” he took a breath and his sigh was positively lovesick as he said, “And he’s so _good_ to Thomas.”

                Logan cocked his head to the side with a slight smile. “Mr. Picani, my good man… you sound like a fool in love.”

                “Maybe I am!” Emile laughed nervously. After a second, he swallowed thickly. “It… it makes me feel sick… talking to someone else about it. I feel like… I feel like I’m doing something… _terribly_ wrong.”

                “Emile,” Logan said as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “I believe that in the eyes of God, there is no penalty for love.”

                Emile’s gaze softened… and he smiled. But before he could reply, Logan heard a knock at the door. Remy, no doubt. Logan smiled and clapped Emile on the shoulder. “Just a moment, if you would.”

                Catching the door on the second bout of knocking, Logan pulled it open to reveal… not Remy. But the town baker. Dressed in a warm brown coat and a hat, he carried a basket of warm bread on his arm. He smiled brightly when Logan opened the door, and Logan’s heart brimmed with warmth at the sight.

                “A delivery for Mr. Mend!” The baker said happily as he held out the basket to him. “I made the bread fresh this morning… and the pie is piping hot from the oven.”

                “Ah, what a shame,” Logan sighed. “Thomas just went to bed. I’m sure he’ll be happy for it in the morning.”

                The baker laughed a little. “I’m sure he will! What a good man you are… getting a pie for him.”

                “Please,” Logan said as he stepped back and indicated to the interior of the house. “Come in from the cold… you must be freezing.”

                After a moment of consideration, the baker smiled… and stepped inside. He set his basket on the floor, politely taking off his hat as he gave the inside of the house a long, impressed look.

                “You have a lovely home, Mr. Mend.”

                “Thank you,” Logan said softly, watching the mans’ blue eyes as they searched for something inside the house. “I… I don’t believe I caught your name.”

                The baker turned to him, a curious smile on his face that Logan remembered _vividly_. “Patton,” he said with that smile as he extended a hand for Logan to shake. “Patton Moore.”

                “A pleasure,” Logan said as he took Patton’s hand and shook it.

                But… Logan didn’t let go. Patton didn’t either. They watched each other…  eyes knowing… words unsaid… an air clear of tension as they searched each other’s eyes.. The freckles seemed different from the last time Logan had seen them… and Patton’s eyes were still that glowing, iridescent blue.

                “I’ve met you, haven’t I?” Logan asked, his voice barely a whisper. Patton’s smile never wavered, and Logan stepped a little closer, squeezing their joined hands. “Even… if just in a dream.”

                “A dream?” Patton asked innocently, his eyes glimmering as his smile grew.

                “A dream of three spirits,” Logan pressed as he stepped a bit closer. He was crowding Patton against the wall, but the baker didn’t seem to mind. He was watching Logan intently… almost like he was waiting for something. A revelation. An earnest truth. Patton’s eyes were wide and excited as Logan went on, “Spirits of the past, present, and future.”

                “That sounds incredible,” Patton breathed where he was pressed against the wall.

                “They were,” Logan said, “It was.”

                Patton’s gaze flickered down to Logan’s lips… and then back up to his eyes. “And… which one was I?”

                “You were…” Releasing Patton’s hand, Logan brought up his hands to cup Patton’s face. Those eyes. Those _damned_ eyes… and the freckles that resembled starlight. Scattered across warm, real cheeks… a smile that glowed with candlelight. Logan leaned close. “You… you were…”

                His eyes closed, and the Spirit of Christmas Past kissed him, the warmth of a thousand Christmases washing over him. An embrace from the past… the comfort of a memory no longer there in his mind. The kiss of a stranger he’d loved once but never met. The heat of a warm fireplace on his face, and the drag of a comforting blanket on his skin.

                Pulling back, Logan startled when the grandfather clock chimed. Anxiously, he looked down into Patton’s eyes, seeing the hazy, lovestruck glimmer he’d seen in Emile’s eyes just after Remy had kissed him. Logan smiled and pressed their foreheads together.

                “Merry Christmas, Spirit,” he whispered to Patton’s lips, feeling the rush of air from Patton’s giggle wash over him.

                Patton smiled, his eyes glimmering that soft, subtle glow as he reached up and passed a hand though Logan’s hair. So soft… so kind… Logan almost fell apart in Patton’s hands as he whispered, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Mend.”

**+END+**

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and Merry Christmas everyone! This is just a special little gift I wanted to make for a friend... and all of you, of course.
> 
> This AU was cultivated by me and my good friend, Olli. You can check out their tumblr here: [[x]](https://multifandomwierdo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone! I hope your holiday brings you warmth and happiness.  
>   
> Love,  
> Miss Notes


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